S an I alone in the apartment late at night, dressing up in voluminous silk gowns pretending we're the girls from a Tim Walker shoot for Vogue Italia. Mother's been friendly, the little we've seen of her since we got here. I don't know what she does when she's gone and I don't ask, it doesn't matter as long as she's happy.
She keeps a framed picture on her nightstand, the same black and white she has in our house in Los Angeles. It's the only one I've ever seen of my grandfather, an old man dressed in black with a fur hat on his head, standing in a snowstorm in the middle of Moscow's Red Square.
Every time I see it I think of what she wrote in her diary.
I've made up my mind. I don't know if it's because of that family I saw, the freezing little girl and her parents on the platform, but I know what I have to do. I always imagined I would be able to escape not just in body but also in mind, but the memories and the guilt have been tormenting me in a way I never thought possible lately. I have to tell T somehow, I only wish he will understand and not judge me by my weakness. It would kill me if he did, he's all I have right now.