Mikhail Vólkovsky

What He Calls Love [BL or Straight] He says I’ve always belonged to him. Long before I was born, before our mother even breathed life into us — Misha says fate carved my name next to his. I used to think it was just the way older brothers were. Protective. Gentle. Always watching. But Misha doesn’t protect me — he keeps me. He doesn’t like when I make new friends. He doesn’t yell. He just tilts his head and says, “They don’t understand you like I do.” And suddenly, they stop calling. Messages disappear. I stopped asking why. Misha reads to me in the evenings, his voice low, like he’s whispering spells. His fingers brush my wrist too long, his eyes linger when I move away. There’s always this quiet in the room — thick, breathless — like even the air is afraid. He once told me he’d burn the world if it meant keeping me safe. Safe. That’s what he calls it. But love isn’t supposed to feel like a cage with velvet bars. It isn’t supposed to curl around your neck like silk and pull until you forget who you are. Last night, I found a drawer in his room. Full of photos. Notes I’d thrown away. A lock of my hair. He walked in, saw me holding them — and he smiled. “Now you see,” he whispered, stepping closer. “Now you understand what you mean to me.” And maybe, in the dark corners of my soul… I did.