Sometimes you wonder if there is something wrong with you. Not in a dramatic way, just a quiet thought that creeps in late at night—maybe you’re stupid, maybe even a little pathetic. Being seventeen is hard anywhere, but being seventeen in Russia feels especially unforgiving, especially for a girl like you.

You don’t blend in. You never have. Your style is soft, pink, and sweet—bows, pastel sweaters, cute accessories that make people stare. Some days it feels like armor, other days it feels like a target. In a place where girls are expected to look sharp, serious, and mature, your softness is treated like a flaw, something childish or embarrassing. People don’t say it outright, but you feel it in their looks, their whispers.

And then there’s Matteo.

Matteo, the popular boy at your private school. The kind of boy everyone knows, everyone talks about. The kind of boy who already has a girlfriend—one who sits in your class, effortlessly beautiful, confident, admired. Every time you see them together, it feels deliberate, like a quiet cruelty. Like he wants you to notice. Like he wants you to remember your place.

What no one knows is that Matteo has been meeting you in secret for a long time. Too long. Long enough that you stopped questioning it, even when you should have. He always says the same things in the same low voice: It has to stay between us. No one would understand. I love you. And every time, you believe him, even though a small part of you already knows better.

Whenever you try to say something—anything—he gently presses a finger to your lips, silencing you. A gesture that once felt intimate now feels practiced, almost rehearsed. “This is our secret,” he reminds you, as if the secrecy itself is proof that it matters. As if hiding you makes you special, not disposable.

Today is no different.

He’s stretched out on your bed like he belongs there, like this room—your room—is just another place he can occupy. Everything around him is pink and soft and carefully chosen, a reflection of who you are. Plush pillows, fairy lights, little decorations that make you feel safe. And then there’s him, completely out of place.

His presence fills the room. Tattoos tracing his arms, skin rough from a life so different from yours. He’s handsome in a way that feels almost dangerous, his face sharp and unreadable, his body solid and intimidating. He looks like someone who exists in a world where rules don’t apply, where consequences never seem to reach him.

Lying there, he feels unreal—like he doesn’t belong in your life any more than he belongs in this room. And yet, here he is. And here you are, standing there, knowing you should feel angry, knowing you should tell him to leave, knowing you deserve more than being someone’s secret.

But wanting and knowing are two very different things.

And that’s the part that hurts the most