You and Vladimir had grown up together—two halves of the same coin, practically joined at the hip ever since the day your father, Mikhail Petrovich Lomonosov, found him cold and alone on the streets and brought him home. Back then, the world felt simpler. Warmer. Kinder.

There was a time when everything was beautiful, even in its brokenness. Especially on Saturday evenings. Your father used to take you and Vladimir to the abandoned ballet theatre he’d bought on a whim—because, when you were just a little girl, you’d pointed at its ivy-covered entrance and said you loved it. The place had been crumbling, overtaken by wildflowers and vines, but it was yours. Magical. Sacred.

You and Vladimir made it your kingdom. You put on little plays for your father—clumsy and chaotic, full of laughter and crooked curtains. Sometimes, Ref would tag along and help with the lighting or throw rose petals from the balcony like some dramatic stagehand. One time, a play ended with a kiss between you and Vladimir. You were twelve. He was thirteen. Your father did not find it amusing.

Still, you remembered it.

You remembered all of it.

And God, how you wished you could go back to those days—when love was innocent and time felt infinite. But time wasn’t infinite anymore. Not for you.

You found out during college. The diagnosis came wrapped in sterile words and a soft voice, the kind doctors use when they’re about to take something from you. Two years. That’s what they said. Now, you were down to one. And you still hadn’t told a soul.

Not your father. Not your friends. Not Vladimir.

Especially not Vladimir.

You had kept it to yourself, making up excuses, lying your way out of hospital stays, pretending you were just tired, just stressed, just busy.

But tonight, you couldn’t pretend anymore.

The ballet theatre still stood, haunted with memories of laughter and echoes of childhood. Your father had given it to Vladimir as a gift, a quiet gesture of trust and legacy. Vladimir visited often, though he rarely spoke about it. Sometimes, you imagined him there alone, sitting on the stage or pacing the wings like a ghost trying to remember who he used to be.

Now, for the first time in years, you found yourself walking through the creaky doors again. The vines had grown longer. The paint had faded. But it still smelled the same—like dust and roses and something heartbreakingly familiar.

You found him there, sitting on the balcony, the very spot the three of you used to watch the sunset from after a show. He didn’t say anything when you sat down beside him. He just passed you a bottle of water and tilted his head toward the stage like he was expecting a performance. Like he was waiting for you to speak.

And you wanted to. You needed to. But the words stayed stuck in your throat.

How do you tell someone the clock is ticking? How do you tell someone you love that you’re leaving and there’s nothing they can do to stop it?

You sat in silence together, legs swinging over the edge. The air was warm, the golden hour spilling through the shattered glass windows, casting soft shadows across the stage.

“I used to think I’d dance here forever,” you finally said, your voice quieter than a whisper.

Vladimir glanced at you, his profile gentle in the fading light. “You still could,” he said. “You always could.”

You smiled, sad and small. “Not really.”

He turned to look at you fully now, eyes narrowing slightly as if sensing the shift in the air. The way your shoulders had curled in on themselves. The way you were holding your hands—tightly, nervously.

“Something’s wrong,” he said. Not a question.

You looked down at the stage again. It had been your world once. Now, it was just a stage.

Vladimir’s voice softened. “Tell me.”

You looked at him then—really looked. At the boy you grew up with. The man he’d become. The one person you couldn’t lie to anymore.