Page 8 of Desperate People

Do you know how many men have flat out left me mid-date because they couldn’t deal with the publicity? With the people staring, snapping pictures, and posting comments?

So, yes, I am still single.

I rarely go out.

And when I do, it is always planned in advance.

There’s no winning.

No safe angle.

Every expression is a strategy.

Every outfit is a risk.

Every step is a goddamn performance.

They see the designer dresses, the glossy magazine covers, the curated moments on social media.

They see the name.

Volkov.

And decide they already know the story.

Spoiled. Privileged. Pretty. The end.

They don’t see the degrees I earned with honors from NYU and later, Columbia.

The sleepless nights, the deadlines, the constant need to prove I belonged in rooms where everyone assumed I was there for decoration.

They don’t care that I speak four languages—including American Sign Language—or that I’ve volunteered to interpret at community centers since I was sixteen.

They don’t know I’m classically trained in music.

Or that every year, without fail, I learn a new Italian aria to sing for my parents on their anniversary.

That it’s the one time I see my father soften without reservation.

No one asks if I have hobbies, passions, fears.

They just want the image. The illusion.

And I give it to them because it’s easier than trying to correct the narrative.

But when the cameras are gone?

When the makeup’s wiped off and I’m sitting cross-legged on my kitchen floor in a hoodie three sizes too big for me, I eat an entire pint of Haagen-Dazs for dinner.

Not because I’m heartbroken or spiraling.

Just because I want to.

Because it’s vanilla bean and I can.

And maybe that’s why I still think about what my father said that night.

Why the words he spoke to me so long ago still echo in my brain during the quiet moments.

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