Somehow, I survived.
I wasn't supposed to. I wasn't supposed to open my eyes, breathe, exist-but I did.
Maybe it was a miracle. Maybe it was sheer luck. Or maybe it was because Judas had jumped after me, and Ralph had followed right after, pulling both of us from the jaws of death.
That's what Kyle told me, at least. He refused to say anything else after that, just stared at me with something unreadable in his eyes before changing the subject.
I didn't push. Those memories were too raw, too haunting.
And to be honest, when I jumped…
I wasn't thinking. Not about who I was leaving behind. Not about who would pull me back. Not even about myself. That was selfish of me on some part. There was just nothing. A single, endless moment of weightlessness, of cold air slicing against my skin, of the deafening rush of wind in my ears. And then-impact. Water swallowing me whole. Darkness pulling me under. Pressure crushing my chest. I didn't fight it. I let it happen. But something else didn't.
Hands grabbing me, forcing me back to the surface. And now, somehow…
I was here. Alive. Breathing. Existing. But at what cost? Because the thing about surviving when you weren't supposed to-
It didn't feel like a second chance. It feels like a sentence. A constant loop of questioning. Why was I here? Why did I make it? Why did I have to come back? A never-ending tug-of-war between gratitude and resentment. Grateful to be alive. Resentful that I wasn't allowed to let go. That night still lived in me, in the marrow of my bones, in the deepest corners of my mind. I still had nightmares. I'd wake up screaming.
Other times, I'd wake up numb. Frozen. Like my soul hadn't caught up with my body yet. Like I was still there, suspended in that moment between life and death. Doctors said it'd take time.
Some nights, the feeling of falling would slam into me so violently that I'd jolt awake gasping for air, gripping the sheets, trying to remind myself that I wasn't drowning anymore.
But wasn't I? I was trying. Trying to let go of the weight. Trying to forget the feeling of slipping away. Trying to hold on to the people who pulled me back. But that was the thing about healing, wasn't it?
It didn't come all at once. It wasn't some epiphany that washed over you, cleansing you of your past. It was slow. Messy. It was waking up one day and realizing you could breathe without it hurting as much.
It was laughing without guilt creeping in.
It was learning to exist without questioning whether you should.
It was falling apart and putting yourself back together-over and over again.
Until one day…
You weren't just surviving anymore.
You were living.
Everything had changed.
But at the same time, nothing had.
I was still me-at least, in the ways that mattered. But there were cracks now, deeper than before, scars that ran beneath my skin, unseen but always there. I wasn't sure if I would ever be whole again.
Maybe I never was to begin with.
The hospital room felt too white, too sterile, too clean for someone like me-someone who had been drenched in the filth of death and dragged back by hands that refused to let go.
But Judas.
He had changed the most.
Not in ways that were obvious at first glance. No, Judas still carried himself with that same quiet, unshakable arrogance and intimidation that made your bones freeze. Still had that cruel glint in his eyes and those sharp, cutting words that could eviscerate a person before they even knew they were bleeding. Still held his cane with that same lazy, unaffected grip.
This time he used it for real, and not for faking anything.
But there was a shift. Something was different.
I could see it in the way his fingers curled around his cane, knuckles whitening whenever I winced. Or woke up screaming. He'd be there. On every way. Silent. Not speaking anything. Just… there.
In the way he watched me-like I was a ghost he wasn't sure was really there. I'd sometimes woke up feeling his cold fingers on my cheek, or particularly on that scar. Like he was afraid I'd disappear if he blinked too long.
He tried to hide it behind crude words and biting remarks, but I wasn't blind.
Just like this morning when I woke up. He was there.
Sitting at my bedside. Despite being battered himself. Unshaven, over-grown stubble, dark hooded eyes and… red eyes. Staring at me like he didn't believe I was real. Like he was living in my nightmares himself. Like he was waiting for me to fade away.
His voice would crack sometimes.
Judas never cracked.
I didn't bring it up.
Neither did he.
But I noticed things.
Like how he wouldn't leave my side-not for a second.
Like how he barely slept, because the moment my breathing changed, the moment I twitched in my sleep, he was there. Like how he didn't look at me the same anymore. Before, he had looked at me like I was something to conquer. Something to own. Now?
Now he looked at me like I was fragile.
Like I was something precious.
And I didn't know what to do with that.
Because I wasn't sure I wanted to be fragile.
I wasn't sure I knew how to be.
But Judas…
Judas was still Judas.
And he was angry.
I had seen it simmering beneath his skin in the days that followed. I could hear it in his voice, in the lethal way he spoke whenever Lucius's name was brought up.
Lucius was dead now. Somewhere sinking in that ocean.
His name had been dragged through the dirt, his sins laid bare for the world to see.
It wasn't enough for Judas. It would never be. He was restless. More volatile than usual. His words were sharper when he'd talk to Kyle as if his patience was wearing thinner with passing second.
But when it came to me? He was careful. Too careful. Like he was terrified of breaking me.
Like he didn't realize I had already broken. But the thing was-
I had survived. And not only in the meaning of the words. But in ways, that were beyond the explanation. He'd still touch me, confessed thousand times.
The first time he kissed me after everything, really kissed me, it wasn't slow. It wasn't careful.
It was desperate.
It was everything.
He didn't stop at my lips. His hands were everywhere, tracing over the scars, the burns, the places where I had nearly been lost. He kissed every mark on me, reminding me of what we had survived, until I was shaking, until I was crying, until I realized-
I had never felt more whole.
And when he finally sank into me, it wasn't just sex.
It was an apology. A promise. A devotion so deep, so consuming, it felt like worship.
After that, we were us again.
Or maybe something more.
I played with his hair as he slept with his head on my naked chest, his arms wrapped around me in a grip so tight it was almost anxious.
He murmured something in Russian. Like a child. Like someone who had fought too long, who had bled too much, who didn't know what peace felt like anymore.
I ran my fingers down his nape, tracing the tattoos with my fingers wondering how this man could become my everything. The boy who had been born into war. The man who had never known softness but still craved it in the deepest parts of himself. He had never admitted it out loud, never would, but I saw it. Felt it. In the way he touched me. In the way he held me even in his sleep, his body moulding into mine like we were meant to fit.
He had given me everything he had left. And maybe it wasn't pretty. Maybe it wasn't kind.
But it was real.
Because love wasn't just a soft emotion. It wasn't something delicate or easy. Love was violent. Love was volatile. It was war.
And I had been fighting for him for as long as I could remember.
The world had broken both of us in ways we would never fully recover from. We were jagged edges, raw wounds, scars layered over scars. But somehow, in this madness, in all the chaos, we had endured.
And even though the past still lingered in our bones, even though some nights I still woke up gasping for air, I knew.
I knew we would be okay.
Because Judas still kissed my scars like they were sacred. Because he still whispered my name like a prayer.
Because when I had been drowning, he had followed me into the abyss.
And when I had been lost, he had found me.
I pressed a kiss to his temple, feeling the way he instinctively held me tighter, his fingers flexing against my waist even in sleep. "Ptichka…"
I smiled.
Love was not just soft touches and sweet words. It was rage. It was desperation. It was a war waged between two souls who refused to let go.
And if love was war-
Then we had already won.