Page 38 of Unspoken

"What about chemo?"

"I want to stop." The finality of it is a punch to the gut.

Every instinct screams to fight, to claw against the inevitable closing in, but it's her life, her choice. "Okay, Ma," I whisper. "Okay."

The silence that follows is suffocating, filled with unsaid goodbyes and relentless ticking of the clock—each second a reminder of the death coming for my mother.

I hunch over her hospital bed, both my hands now clasped in hers. "Ma… What am I going to do without you?"

Another tear runs down my face against my wishes, but I’ve been keeping it all in for so long, I can’t anymore. I need to cry. Yes, I feel stupid. I'm an adult. But right now I feel like a little boy again, unprotected from the evils of the world.

"Shh," she soothes, her fingers trembling as they brush away the waterworks. Those fingers, once so strong when they'd bandaged scraped knees and fixed broken toys, are now frail and ghostly pale. "It's okay, my boy," she murmurs. "It’s okay."

Her voice is the gentle rustle of leaves. Leaves in a graveyard where no other sounds exist. "I'll be with your father soon. That's something beautiful, isn't it?"

My lips tremble. "Yeah, Ma. Beautiful."

"And you..." She pauses, a soft sigh escaping her lips. "You've got to promise me something."

"Anything," I whisper, a soldier awaiting orders for the last time.

"Live," she commands with the authority that has never faded, not even in the face of death. "Truly live, Logan. Don't let the shadows of this world swallow you whole. Don't let the past keep a hold on you."

My chest is tight, each breath a battle as I nod, unable to form words. A promise, a plea, a final wish—I understand them all without her saying more.

"Your life is yours alone," she continues, a matriarch even in her final days. "No one else gets to tell you how to walk it."

"Ma, I—"

"Let me go with grace. Let me leave knowing you won't be chained by grief or guilt. I had a good life. I lived well and I’m proud of you. Proud of what you became and that’s something I’m going to hold on to when I go. Hold on to the miracle that you are."

"Okay," I choke out, the simplest sound now the heaviest burden. "I promise."

"Good." She squeezes my fingers in hers. "Good. That’s all I needed to hear, my boy."

CHAPTER 14

SASHA

I stride past the looming buildings sprouting all over this campus, the soles of my trainers kissing the sun-seared pavement with a rhythmic thud. Vlad's been absent these past few weeks–flitting in and out of the city, wheeling and dealing. At this point, I wonder if he’s truly busy or if he's avoiding me. Or maybe he’s not even real. I can’t remember the last time we properly spoke.

Logan's been my shadow instead, very corporeal and silent. But even he's not himself lately. There's a gloom about him that sticks tighter than his own skin. His mum's unwell, that much I've sussed out, but he clams up whenever I broach the subject. He's got walls and he doesn’t seem to want to let me in.

"Be back in a tick," I told Logan earlier, wanting to dodge any gawking eyes on campus. He grumbled something about duty and always watching me, but his furrowed brow eventually smoothed, and he stayed put in the car after I explained that a lad with a security detail would draw way more attention.

Now, here I am, trying to slot myself into this academic jigsaw where every other piece seems to fit without struggle.

The buildings here are different, new, blocks of glass and steel and white metal sheets. Native plants sprawl over the dryterrain where the campus stands. Occasional bunches of cacti reach up to the cloudless sky. I feel a bit like those poor cacti clinging to the idea that a normal life is somewhere within grasp.

But I don’t think for people like me it’s possible.

Still, my brother tried to pretend things were dandy. Vlad's instructions were clear: "Get back to your studies, Sasha. Design was always your thing. So do that. Get your diploma."

Easy for him to say.

I pull out the campus map I grabbed earlier, studying it with furrowed concentration. The paper rustles in my hand. A normal student would blend in seamlessly, but I'm a square peg, rough around the edges, trying to push through the round hole of university life.

A bead of sweat traces a line down my back, and I curse the Vegas heat under my breath. It's an oven out here, and I'm half-baked already. I shove the map back into my backpack and wipe my palms on my jeans. There's no shaking this feeling of being a right misfit, a lost lad in a landscape that doesn't know the meaning of mayhem or blood debts.

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