Page 35 of Ruins
I roll my eyes at her antics and head back to my room, my new phone still clutched tightly in my hand. It’s beautiful and sleek, gleaming under the sunlight spilling through my bedroom window. I switch it on, and sure enough, his number is there.
A sudden surge of anxiety floods me. I’m marrying into a world far more intense than mine. I keep staring at the blank screen, the reality of it all sinking in.
I try to distract myself by tidying up my room, but the new phone buzzes in my hand. A text message. My heart skips a beat when I see his name.
‘Vasilisa, hope you’re settling well with your new phone. Just wanted you to be able to reach me directly if needed.’
I read through his message several times, unsure of how to respond. What do I even say to a man who justtookmy phone?
I type out a simple thank you and hover over the send button, hesitating. The blank screen stares back at me, taunting me. A plain thank-you feels too impersonal, too stiff for the man I’m about to marry.
Before I can overthink it, I switch to the camera, aim it at myself, and snap a quick photo. Nothing fancy—just me sitting at my desk, sunlight spilling through the window, my hair loose around my shoulders. I stare at the picture for a long moment, debating whether he would even want this.
But I send it anyway. A leap of faith.
The message shows as delivered. I wait, my heart thrumming in my chest. But nothing comes. No response.
Minutes stretch into hours. Then into an entire evening. Still, nothing.
I shouldn’t care.It’s just a text.
A simple photo.
But when I finally set the phone down for the night, something in me deflates. Like a foolish, fleeting hope just got snuffed out.
***
The weekend passes in a blur of fittings, final touches on the wedding dress, and endless back-and-forth with my mother about traditions I’m apparently supposed to uphold as Santo Amato’s wife. I try not to think about the selfie.
Or the fact that I followed it up with more photos—each dress, every accessory, even the simple pink heels I picked out.
He doesn’t respond to any of them.
Each photo disappears into silence, met with nothing but a read receipt. No acknowledgment, no reaction, just a blank void. I tell myself it doesn’t matter. That I shouldn’t care.
But when my phone buzzes Sunday night, the single word on my screen nearly steals my breath.
‘Beautiful.’
I stare at the screen, my heart doing an embarrassing little flip.
That’s it.
One word.
And yet, it feels like so much more.
From that point on, I find myself sending him more photos—another dress, a set of earrings, a bouquet my mother insists on. Sometimes, his responses come hours later. Sometimes, they’re immediate. Always brief.
‘Perfect. It suits you.’
‘Elegant.’
‘That’s stunning.’
But with each reply, something warm and unfamiliar sparks inside me. Like maybe this isn’t just about tradition and duty. Like maybe, just maybe, we’re beginning to find a way to meet in the middle.
The phone buzzes, breaking me out of my thoughts. I grab it off my nightstand, a small smile sneaking onto my face.
