The scarier question is whether he feels the same. I know he said it, but so what? He could be misguided. So I keep turning it over, poking at it from different angles, trying to find the version of events where this is all just obsession or possession or some dark, twisted fixation that has nothing whatsoever to do with love.
But then I think about last night. Not the violence—though that’s certainly part of it, and I’ll unpack that in therapy someday if I do ever go back. I think about the dinner and the candles, about his hand in mine. The man killed someone for me and then kissed my forehead and told me to go back to sleep.
That’s a man who’s committed, whether he knows it or not.
So f**k it then. I love Kir Lazarev, and he loves me. Saying that to each other’s faces is another leve
