While I risked everything—sneaking past my aunt’s iron grip, enduring her vile punishments to steal moments with you—you gave your heart, your body, to another. At fifteen, you lay with him, your skin pressed to his in a betrayal that sears my memory. I wish your name didn’t taste like prayer when I whisper it. I wish your memory didn’t feel like home. But I’ll carry you with me, even when I try to bury what’s left of that boy you once loved. You’ll remember me one day — not as the broken foster boy who worshiped you, but as the man your betrayal created. I leave for Russia now, to reclaim a
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