Nineteen.

Mikhail

Maria and I sit across from one another in the dining room, surrounded by glass and mirrored walls as dinner is served.

Every item of furniture in this room is translucent or made of glass. The sensation of being suspended in nothingness makes me feel alive. Others find it agoraphobic, but I like feeling untethered among the universe, as dramatic as it may sound. It gives me a sense of freedom away from my responsibilities. She doesn't seem to notice the room except every once in a while. She looks up at the window.

I glance at Maria, dressed in one of the household staff's dresses. Somehow, it suits her—almost like a goddess has fallen to Earth and taken on the guise of a mortal. She seems unconcerned with her surroundings as she cuts into her chicken to take a bite. I sip my wine as I watch her, but she refuses to look at me.

To be fair, she has other things to worry about.

Tension makes me want to control it, and by extension, her. She glances at me and then back at her pla