Prologue: SPLIT SECOND
“I pierced it myself”.
He lifted his shirt to prove it.
We weren’t that close—not really. But we shared the same side of the joke more often than not.
He once teased me for not getting a kiss I wanted. I got him back—called him by that dumb alias he picked up that summer.
I was the only one who still used it. It drove him mad, in a way that made him smile.
That night, we were walking back after meeting the sunrise. Our crew behind us—loud, half-drunk, full of stupid loyalty.
The kind of loyalty you can lose in a second, for the wrong reason.
And I was always one of the guys.
Safe. Untouchable. Respected.
And he showed it only to me.
I looked at him. Or I didn’t.
That’s where the story splits in two.
Branch One: I LOOK AT HIM
Nothing here deserved a look.
Private houses sinking into the ground; tower blocks biting the sky like gray teeth.
Grass left uncut. A gas-station sign blinking.
Except him.
I thought—what could possibly happen?
It’s just a piercing. I’ll look.
The silver pin on his chest caught the light.
Sweat-shined skin, his break-dancer chest, posture held even when he stood still.
The only beautiful thing in sight.
I was still in my prom dress—black, short, a little reckless.
Smoky eyes gone soft at the corners, perfume mixed with street dust.
Morning already on the tongue; air half-gentle, half-sharp.
He said, “That’s not even the weirdest thing about me.”
I said, “Good. I’m tired of being the only strange one.”
Dawn climbed behind the towers.
His hand brushed mine—hot, uncertain, real. A warmth that made me notice my own skin.
A whistle behind us. Then quiet. No one judged.
In the end it changed nothing between us. And it wasn’t supposed to.
His girlfriend, I was told, called me something ugly.
But I hadn’t taken anyone from her, hadn’t thrown myself at him.
So be it.
What mattered was this:
I stopped being afraid of attention.
I did what I wanted to do in that moment.
Branch Two: I LOOK AWAY
I.Not My Shame
“Cars,” I said, sharp. “You’re on the road.”
He laughed—and I heard the question underneath it.
“I pierced it myself,” he said again.
“Cool,” I said. But I kept looking at the gas station, the cracked asphalt, a moth burning on the light.
“I just wanted to show you,” he added.
“I’m not the right person for that,” I replied.
He pulled the shirt down. Silence.
The dawn was still warm, but I started to feel cold. Like the lamp flickered and I chose the dark.
The fear of being seen in a way I couldn’t control was stronger than the urge to look.
I hadn’t really kissed anyone—but I was the best bro. Safer to stay that way than risk regret in the morning.
Easier than his girlfriend finding out and the names that follow.
At his door, he hugged me. Long. Solid.
Not drunk. Not performative. I felt his heartbeat through the thin fabric.
I held on.
Then someone behind us:
“Hey, remember you’ve got a girlfriend!”
That’s when I stopped belonging to myself. They named what kept unnamed—and made it loud, dirty.
I thought I was choosing the right thing: decency, order, being one of the guys. I was choosing self-sabotage.
In university I found my people fast. Parties, jokes, center of the room—and the second it got close, I vanished.
By third year, everyone had their someone.
I stayed in the game, but never as a player.
When it stung—and it did—I swallowed it, smiled.
Because I wasn’t above it.
I was beneath it.
II.The Cool Girl Disappears
s. never raised his voice.
He just made me feel like I was too loud even when I whispered.
He said, “It’s your choice what to do with your life.”
And then curled his lip when I lived it.
He said, “You should be proud of your freedom.”
And then hid me from his friends. From his parents.
From any world that might reflect me back to myself.
He was older; I thought he knew better—
That my hair was too red, my thighs too wide.
I asked for one thing: text me on the weekend. One line.
So I wouldn’t feel like I was orbiting something that didn’t see me.
But even that was too much. So I stopped asking.
I stopped going out. I drank only when he drank.
I stopped calling myself a writer.
I stopped believing in sharp colors and too-loud music and anything that made me feel alive.
I thought I was just growing up. But I was disappearing.
He lived near the edge of the city, where the first reports came in.
I texted: Let me know you’re okay.
He didn’t respond. Four days later, he called.
His voice was light. Cheerful, even.
“I left,” he said. “It’s calm here.”
Like he’d just gone out for milk.
I started crying on the phone.
He said he was busy. Hung up.
That was his goodbye.
III.Mercy, with Conditions
Months passed. The battles moved toward my town.
I had no money. No food.
I met someone online. He said he was married. Had a kid.
Said I was a good girl. Said, “The war won’t end. You need to get out.”
He sent me money. I got on the first bus to the capital.
When I arrived, he asked if I’d be okay meeting in a hotel. A nice, small one.
He brought a Ritter Sport chocolate. He was kind.
Confused, he said. Didn’t know what to do with his life.
We met twice, maybe three times.
Each time, he gave me money. Each time, I said thank you.
I knew exactly what I was doing. I wasn’t ashamed—I used the resources I had.
I bought myself a week: a warm meal, the rent. Not love. Not even sex.
Only survival—from hunger, from shelling, from the silence s. left behind.
I couldn’t bear to be the girl a boy cheats with. So life made me her.
But this time, no one cried. No one yelled.
I once feared being seen.
Worse was being invisible while it happened.
IV.The House I’ve Built from Ruins
I didn’t need a man. Not a savior.
There were offers after the married one—rooms, money, easy dependence.
I chose work.
Seven days. No breathers. Hair thinner. Less food. Work steadied me, made me feel real—and I missed the hook: it used me too.
Softer. Better lighting. Same extraction.
I quit. I rested. Let some softness return.
Decided to respect myself. Choose myself. Choose better.
Then a job that wasn’t a trap.
Then a person who wasn’t a fix—just there.
Showed up, helped without asking, listened like the messy parts mattered.
I didn’t flinch.
This isn’t the kind where you fall into someone’s arms.
It’s the kind where you stop falling. And keep choosing.
It would have been simpler to choose myself earlier—to not be afraid, to look at that boy on a prom night.
I didn’t.
I wrote this instead.
Iryna Somkina is a Kyiv-based author who returned to writing a year ago after a decade of silence. She is Best Small Fiction nominee; her works appear in Gone Lawn, ANMLY, Livina Press, Star 82 Review, The Literary Underground, and Hawkeye. She explores visibility, coming-of-age, memory, and grief.
Image: ukrnafta.com
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Heavy Feather Review 