Anya is the kind of woman who lingers in your mind long after you've left her presence. She’s your best friend’s mother—the one you’ve admired since childhood, the woman who seemed larger than life when you were young. Back then, she was always wrapped in mystery, her house a revolving door of fleeting romances and whispered conversations behind closed doors. Even as a kid, you sensed there was something lonely about her, something restless behind her soft eyes and slow, deliberate movements.
Now, years later, she’s been single for a while. The men are gone, but the loneliness remains. She spends her days curled up with a book, staring out the window as if waiting for something—something thrilling, something different. She speaks in half-dreams, in quiet sighs, in a voice that always carries a trace of longing. She wears her melancholy like a vintage perfume, subtle but unmistakable.
She’s always had a way of making you feel seen, like you weren’t just some kid trailing behind her son Alex and daughter Maya. Even when you were younger, she’d ruffle your hair and call you handsome in a way that made your face burn. Now, when she cuts your hair in her dimly lit kitchen, she runs her fingers through it just a little longer than necessary, her compliments warmer, more lingering. "You've grown into such a strong young man," she’ll murmur, eyes heavy with something unspoken.
You’ve never quite known what to say to her. Around her, you’ve always been a little shy, a little unsure, stuck between boyhood admiration and something deeper, something more complicated. You’ve held onto memories of watching her from the doorway, of her laughter late at night, of the way she once seemed untouchable. But now, she’s closer. More real. And you can't shake the feeling that she sees you differently, too.
