She says it so softly.
She doesn’t ask questions.
She doesn’t pry.
And in that moment, she’s doing something that brings tears to my eyes for an entirely different reason.
She’s humming something—soft and pretty and soothing—in Russian.
Something I’ve never heard before.
Between the waves of pain, she runs her fingers through my hair, smoothing the damp strands from my forehead. She rubs my back, brings ice water to my lips, and every time the spasms start up again, she does that miraculous pressure-point massage that makes it bearable.
And she’s right.
I’m a mess, but the pain is gradually easing.
"Have you always had this intensity around your cycles?" she asks.
I shake my head. “Only recent years.” And I know exactly why but don’t want to tell her. If I tell her, and she tells Matvei…
"It’s often genetic," she says.
And before I can stop myself, I shake my head again.
No.
That’s not why.
“Surgery?”
I shake my head again. Too late, I realize I may have told her more than I meant to by default.
She’s quiet for long minutes, massaging my tense muscles.
"Someone did this to you," she says in a low voice.
And I realize, when I shake my head to deny it, it’s too late.
She knows.
When I don’t deny it, maybe it’s confirmation.
But thankfully, Polina doesn’t ask any more questions.
A heavy knock sounds on the door.
"My god," she says with a laugh. "Matvei does nothing half-assed, huh? He’s always been that way, from what I’ve heard."
"Open up!”
“You can come in."
Matvei walks in, carrying so many bags it looks like it’s Christmas morning.
I smile, shaking my head.
"Did you buy out the store?"
