an invitation

Andrea’s hand still trembled faintly in yours, her thumb brushing against your painted nails as if the act itself were strange, unfamiliar. Her eyes, wide and wet, darted over you again—your soft skin, the shimmer of gloss at your lips, the way the gray dress clung to your hips.

“You…you’re not my Steve anymore,” she whispered. “Not really. And yet you are. God, I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel.”

You tilted your head, the movement delicate, hair slipping off your bare shoulder. “Andrea… I still your Steve. But also, I am Yulia now. It not change how important you are to me. Not change how I feel.”

Her gaze softened, but the turmoil in her face did not ease. She gave a brittle laugh. “You sound so certain. So happy. Like you’ve already accepted all of this.”

You paused, considering, choosing words carefully with your broken English. “I can no change who I am. Now I am Yulia, so I choose be happy."

Her lips parted, and she let out a shaky breath. “God, Steve…”

“Yulia,” you corrected gently, though your smile was warm. “But Steve still in me. You know this.”

The silence stretched, heavy with feeling. Then suddenly, as if lightning struck your mind, you leaned closer, excitement sparking in your voice. “Andrea, I have idea. Will you come? To wedding?”

Her brows knit. “Wedding?”

“Yes,” you nodded eagerly. “It is in four days. Small, quiet… only family and close friends. But I want you there. Of course I do! You are most important person in my life. You must be at my wedding.”

Andrea blinked, utterly bewildered. “Are you sure you want me there?”

You laughed then, a bright girlish sound that startled even you. “Of course! Why you ask such silly question? You my wife, my friend, my—” you stumbled, catching yourself, “—my heart. Always. You must come. Even if not part of ceremony, I want you there.”

Your fingers tightened around hers, noting absently how odd it felt—her warm familiar hand against your own slender delicate one. The affection was there, the bond unbreakable… but something inside you shifted. Some part of you whispered that when Victor touched you, when his voice rumbled against your ear, the pull you felt was deeper, heavier, more commanding. This, with Andrea, was different—precious still, but no longer the same.

Andrea studied you for a long time, lips trembling, as though torn between clinging to you and recoiling from the truth you embodied. Finally she whispered, “I don’t know what to say.”

You only smiled, the corners of your mouth curling with a new, almost dangerous confidence. “Say yes. Say you come.”