His eyes grow cautious and I feel myself recoiling. A question I’ve been pondering lately: at the end of the day, what’s the difference between hope and masochism? At least masochists know their pain is coming sooner or later. Hopers and dreamers never know anything for certain.
So maybe I shouldn’t have come out here at all. I shouldn’t have engaged him in conversation. It’s only going to end up hurting me. But I did it anyway. Because the pain feels worth it if it means I get to share something—anything—with him.
“So we’re leaving,” I say, breaking the silence because I know Daniil won’t. “Again. Where to this time? Shangri-La? Zimbabwe? Mars?”
“I went there once as a teenager. I enjoyed it. I thought you and Isla would, too.”
“Who’d you have to kill in Switzerland?”
He doesn’t laug
