Never Meant To Be

Dimitri’s POV

“The door is locked! I’ve been ringing the buzzer for the last fifteen minutes! She’s not answering!”

The voice hit me before I even turned the corner—sharp, high-pitched, dramatic.

“Ugh! Why me? It’s raining! The driver left and I’m stuck in this godforsaken place!”

I rounded the corner to find a soaked girl—maybe seventeen—mid-meltdown. She was sobbing like a child, loud and shameless, crouched on the concrete with one arm thrown over her head like it could shield her from the rain.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone cry that hard in public.

Mother always says, “Crying is useless.”

Then again, Mother’s Russian.

The girl slammed her phone down, still wailing into the storm, completely falling apart.

I hated girls like her. Emotional. Loud. Crying like the world owed them something.

But mostly, I hated her because I knew how it felt to need someone—to scream without making a sound—and have no one give a shit.

So I didn’t slam the door in her face.

I stepped aside and let her in.

She huffed, dragging a suitcase behind her. Her soaked hair clung to her cheeks, and her big honey-colored eyes looked up at me—hopeful, silently pleading.

I was already regretting this.

I grabbed the suitcase and pushed past her into the dimly lit hallway.

“Where’s the elevator?” she asked like I worked here.

“There isn’t one,” I muttered, heading toward the stairs.

“No elevator? But I’m going to the fifth floor!” she protested, like the building owed her more.

I wasn’t falling for that look again. I turned and kept walking—but before I could escape, Ms. Chi, our landlady, came out of her unit.

“What’s all this noise?” she asked, peering at us both. “Friend of yours?” she added, eyeing the suitcase.

“No,” I said. “She was outside getting drenched, so I let her in.”

Ms. Chi turned to the girl. “Who are you?”

“I—I…”

I took that as my cue to leave. I hadn’t made it five steps when Ms. Chi shouted, “Where are you going? You’re just going to leave me alone with Ms. ‘I—I’?”

Ms. Chi might’ve looked like a sweet, frail old woman, but she could throw hands like a champion. You didn’t cross her unless you wanted to wake up regretting it.

She shoved her glasses down from the top of her head and took a step toward the girl.

“Name?” she demanded.

“Chloe.”

“Chloe what? What is it with your generation and not introducing yourselves properly?”

“Chloe Lemus, ma’am,” she said, voice shaky but loud.

“Who are you visiting?” Ms. Chi asked, already scrolling through her phone.

“My aunt. I’ve been calling, but she’s not picking up.”

Ms. Chi gave her a tight nod. “You may go,” she said to Chloe, “but have your aunt come speak to me when she shows up.”

Then she flicked her fingers at me, gesturing toward the suitcase like I was her personal porter.

I sighed hard, bent down, and grabbed the handle.

Chloe followed me—way too slowly—up the stairs, muttering to herself the entire time. By the fifth floor, my jaw was clenched and my patience was paper-thin. I dropped her suitcase with a heavy thud.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“Don’t mention it,” I said and turned toward my door.

⸻

I pushed it open and walked straight into the same nightmare I faced every day.

The apartment hit me with the familiar mix of dirty diapers, overflowing trash, and the unmistakable sting of dried vomit lingering in the air. I winced, breathing through my mouth as I crossed the stained floor.

My mother was slumped on the old army green couch, a half-empty bottle dangling from her hand. Nikolai—my nephew, just nine months old—was red-faced and crying on a dirty blanket near her feet.

“What’s all the noise?” Mom mumbled without even lifting her head.

I didn’t answer. I walked past her, scooped Niko off the floor, and held him close. He was hot, probably hungry, definitely needed a change.

“I got you, buddy,” I whispered, carrying him toward the kitchen.

Behind me, the bottle slipped from my mom’s hand and thudded to the floor.

“YA zadayu tebe chertov vopros!” she slurred, struggling to her feet before collapsing onto the coffee table.

I turned, voice tight. “I don’t have time for your questions, Mom. Niko needs food. And a diaper.”

“Where’s Gena?” she demanded, like she was the one just stepping into the house.

“Good question. You tell me.”

“She’s probably out wasting time again,” she said, almost like it was someone else’s problem.

She wasn’t wrong. Gena disappeared without warning, without care. Never checked if Mom was sober enough to look after her own baby.

I grabbed a clean bottle, filled it, and headed to the bedroom. The air was stale, the walls too thin, the crib still broken.

“One day,” I whispered as I changed Niko’s diaper and slipped him into clean pajamas, “I’ll get us out of this dump.”

He looked up at me with big, trusting eyes as he sucked on the bottle.

I brushed a hand through his soft hair.

“I’m not even living—I’m just existing.”

And I couldn’t keep doing it. Not much longer.

Tomorrow, I’d meet with the man everyone feared.

The one they said could make or break you with a single look.

I had to impress him. I had to make the cut.

Faltering wasn’t an option—not when my family was drowning.