Love Me, Don't Fix Me

Nova didn't sleep.

She spent the night staring at the ceiling, her body aching from how long she'd curled herself into a ball under her duvet. Her pillow was still damp with tears, and her phone—lying face down beside her—had long gone silent.

She'd texted Andrew.

Twice.

Then three times.

Each message shorter than the last, desperate without sounding desperate. But no reply ever came.

Now, sunlight spilled through the large bay window of her room, golden and soft, but it did little to lift the weight sitting on her chest.

Dragging herself out of bed, she moved like a ghost. She showered in silence, standing under scalding water that did nothing to wash away the humiliation. The image replayed over and over in her mind—being yanked out of Andrew's apartment like some criminal, her shirt halfway on, her father's voice slicing through the tension like a guillotine.

What good had any of that done?

What "good" was her father even talking about?

By the time she got dressed—slipping into a pair of denim shorts, a soft pink T-shirt, and white sneakers—her anger had outpaced her heartbreak. She tied her hair into a messy bun, grabbed her purse, and stormed out of her room.

Each step down the stairs echoed like a countdown.

In the kitchen, Nikolai stood at the counter, blending one of his signature green smoothies that looked like radioactive sludge. He was humming quietly to himself, pretending, as always, that everything was under control. That he hadn't just ruined her life.

"Dad, where are my car keys?" she asked sharply.

He didn't even flinch.

"Good morning to you too, Nova," he said, not turning around.

"Dad. Where. Are. My. Car. Keys?"

Now he turned, setting the blender lid down slowly. "Where exactly do you think you're going? I can drop you off."

She scoffed. "I don't want to be in the same room with you, let alone in the same car. Just give me my keys."

His jaw clenched, the vein near his temple twitching. "You're going to see him, aren't you? Nova, I'm telling you now—don't."

Her eyes narrowed, voice cold. "You can go to hell."

The blender's hum wasn't loud enough to drown out the silence that followed.

"Nova," he warned, stepping forward. "Don't you dare speak to me like that."

"Or what?" she snapped. "You'll ground me? Lock me in my room? Threaten my boyfriend again?"

The tension crackled in the air like static.

Elara's voice cut through it from the hallway.

"Nova, that's not how you speak to your father."

She walked into the kitchen in her silk robe, her six-month bump visible beneath it. Her tone wasn't angry, just tired. Worn thin.

Nova turned to her, pleading. "Then what should I do, Mom? Keep obeying him while he runs my life like I'm a prisoner in his empire? I'm tired of it. I'm tired of living by his rules."

Elara exhaled, rubbing her temple. "Just… give her the keys."

"Elara—"

"Give her the keys, Niko," she said, firmer this time.

Nikolai stared at her like he couldn't believe what she was saying. Then, slowly, reluctantly, he reached into his pocket, pulled out the car keys, and tossed them onto the counter with a clatter.

Nova snatched them without another word and turned for the door.

"I'm not done with you," Nikolai called after her.

"I was done with you the moment you walked into that apartment," she said without looking back.

She stormed out of the kitchen, the front door slamming behind her with a sharp finality.

Nikolai's hands tightened into fists on the edge of the counter.

Elara watched the door swing shut and then sighed. She turned to the fridge, opened it, and pulled out eggs and milk.

"Make breakfast," she said flatly. "I'm hungry."

Then she walked back upstairs, leaving her husband standing alone in the kitchen.

Alone with his smoothie.

Alone with his guilt.

Alone with the consequences of his own damn choices.

Nova parked just outside Andrew's apartment building, her hands trembling slightly as she cut the engine. Her heart pounded like a drum inside her chest, faster with every second she sat there.

What if he didn't want to see her?

What if her father had said something worse than she imagined?

She took a shaky breath, stepped out of the car, and made her way up the cracked concrete steps. The hallway smelled faintly of old paint and dust, a far cry from the pristine polish of her own home, but something about the imperfections here had always comforted her. It was real—Andrew's life was real.

She reached his door and paused, pressing her fist gently against it once, twice, three times.

There was silence.

Then, the sound of footsteps on the other side.

The door creaked open.

Andrew stood there, shirt wrinkled, eyes heavy with something deeper than fatigue. His curly hair was tousled in that beautiful, careless way she'd grown to adore—but today, it didn't feel charming. It felt tired. Guarded. Like a storm barely held at bay.

He didn't greet her.

"Are you here for the hoodie you left behind yesterday?" he asked, his voice low, detached.

Nova blinked, confused by his cold tone. "What? No… Andrew, we need to talk. Please. Can I come in?"

He sighed, stepping aside wordlessly.

She entered the familiar room—his studio apartment filled with books, scattered papers, sketches, and a faint scent of coffee and laundry. The same room where they'd shared stolen laughter. Her eyes briefly caught the folded hoodie lying on the edge of his bed. But it felt like the room had changed, like a warmth had been sucked out of it and replaced with ice.

"Your hoodie's on the bed," he said, emotionless.

She ignored it, turning to face him. "Andrew, about yesterday—"

"I'd suggest we stop seeing each other," he said before she could finish.

His words struck her like a slap. Her heart stuttered.

"What? Andrew, no. Did my dad threaten you or something? Look, whatever threat he made, don't take it seriously. He's just trying to scare you."

"This has nothing to do with your father's threats," he said, eyes flickering with something darker.

"Then what is it? Talk to me. Please."

He exhaled, running a hand through his messy hair, as if trying to physically push the memories away.

"Your father is the reason my life is ruined, Nova," he said quietly, bitterly. "I have no family. No home. And a stupid, irrational fear of water. I bust my ass every day just to hold onto my scholarship, to keep my job, to eat. And all of it… all of it started the day your father burned my world to the ground."

Nova's breath caught. "Andrew… what are you talking about?"

He looked at her then—really looked at her—and she saw it. Pain. Grief. Rage. A ten-year-old boy trapped behind those tired eyes.

"When I was ten, I came home to find my house on fire. My parents were still inside, screaming. My little brother—he ran outside with flames on his back. He was eight. He jumped into the pool to stop the burning, and he drowned right in front of me."

He paused, swallowing hard, his voice breaking. "I tried to save him. I tried. But I was just a kid. The back door was unlocked. The police didn't even show up until the next morning. And when they did, the case disappeared. No justice. No investigation. Because someone powerful made it disappear. And now I know who it was."

Nova stood frozen, her pulse roaring in her ears.

"It was your father," he said. "Nikolai Volkov. He killed my parents. Burned my house. He's the one who made me an orphan."

She felt like the floor had dropped beneath her. Her hands trembled. Her lips parted in shock, but no words came out.

"No… I didn't know. Andrew, I swear. I didn't know."

"Well, now you do," he said coldly. "And I can't look at you without seeing the fire. Without remembering the screams. I can't be with you, Nova. I won't."

"Andrew, please," she begged, stepping forward. "I didn't know. I love you. Don't punish me for something I had no part in. Don't let my father ruin this too."

He didn't respond.

Instead, he picked up her hoodie from the bed and held it out to her.

"Take it," he said quietly. "And leave."

Nova's eyes welled up, tears sliding down her cheeks, fast and hot.

"Andrew, don't do this to me," she whispered. "Don't throw us away. Please."

His jaw clenched, and his gaze dropped to the floor. He didn't say another word.

"Fine," she said, her voice breaking. She took the hoodie from his hand with trembling fingers. "If you change your mind… you know where to find me."

He didn't respond.

She turned and walked out, her vision blurry, her heart cracking with every step. The door clicked shut behind her, and with it, the echo of something that might have been beautiful.