Page 32 of Carved in Ruin

Mila raised an eyebrow. “And how do you know that?”

He paused, a smug grin spreading across his face. “It’s because I’m four whole years older than you, Mila. You’re seven, I’m eleven. I know much more than you.”

“Nu uh!” she retorted, shaking her head fiercely. She stuck out her tongue and narrowed her eyes at him.

He raised a finger, trying to look all wise. “I do! I know all sorts of stuff you don’t.”

She poked her tongue back out at him. “Nu uh!”

Rafael rolled his eyes. “Okay, but if it isn’t so yucky, maybe I should kiss Rita in my class.”

Mila’s eyes went wide, and she puffed out her cheeks. “Who is Rita?” She asked, a pout tugging at her lips.

“I’m not gonna tell you,” Rafael said, shrugging dramatically, and leaning back, taking another bite of spaghetti.

Mila scrunched her face up, not liking that answer at all. “Well, fine,” she huffed. “I won’t kiss Steven if you won’t kiss her.”

Rafael looked at her, his face serious for a second, before his lips curled into a small, mischievous grin. “Pinky promise?”

She extended her pinky, a huge smile on her baby face. “Pinky promise.”

“You’re a big dork,” he teased, his mouth covered in pasta sauce.

Seventeen

The Taste of Rebellion

Mila

The campus air feels cooler than I expect, and a shiver runs down my spine. I step out of the car, the heels of my boots clicking against the pavement. “Thank you, Anatoly,” I say. He nods before driving off to search for parking.

I square my shoulders, clutching my coat tighter as I approach the lecture hall. The hum of quiet chatter from the other attendees fills the air, but I barely register it. My focus is on the door ahead.

It’s been years since I allowed myself this. Physics is my passion, my escape. I gave it up because of him, because my father deemed it impractical, unbecoming. He always had a way of crushing the things I loved.

I slip into a seat near the back, the professor already mid-talk, the ordeal made me late. The professor explains wave functions and probabilities, how particles exist in a stateof possibility until observed. It’s strange how something so abstract, so theoretical, can feel so grounding.

My father would sneer at this. “You’re wasting time, Mila,” he’d say. “This isn’t who you are.” But he never knew who I was. He never wanted to.

I clench my fists in my lap. The hate I feel for him is a burning, choking thing. It’s new, still unfamiliar, but it’s there. I never thought I could hate him, not truly.

He turned me into a murderer when I was just nine years old. I don’t even remember the faces of the people I killed or the sound of their voices.

I shove the thought aside, focusing on the professor’s voice. He’s moved on to quantum entanglement, describing how particles remain inexplicably connected across unimaginable distances.

A tear escapes down my cheek before I can stop it, and I swipe it away, forcing myself to stay present.

A part of me whispers that Rafael’s anger is justified. That he has every right to despise me. But another part—small and fragile—pushes back. I was a child. A scared, helpless child.

Maybe believing that delusion is the only way I can live with myself.

I straighten in my seat, ignoring everything for just a moment. For once, I’m doing something for me. Just me.

The lecture ends too quickly, the professor’s voice giving way to applause. I sit there for a moment, reluctant to leave.

It’s only when I glance toward the back of the room that my stomach tightens. Anatoly. He’s standing there, leaning casually against the wall, but his gaze is fixed on me. Watching.

I’m always watched. It’s a constant in my life, suffocating and inescapable. I’ve never known what it’s like to justbe.

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