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  1. Public Bookmark *

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    “Oh, fuck you. Sorry I still want to win cups instead of smoking weed with my teammates between losses,” Shane argued.

    The words seemed to drain the rest of the fight out of Ilya. He didn’t know what he was doing anymore, what they were fighting about anymore. All he knew was that it felt like the fears he’d spent the last few months convincing himself were unfounded were unfolding in front of him in real time.

    OR

    A look at how Ilya struggled with his move to Ottawa and an alternate ending to the Boxing Day fight.

    Language:
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    3/3
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    23 Jun 2026

  2. Public Bookmark 65

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    “Nineteen,” Shane says quietly.

    Ilya turns his head to face him, nose smashing into the pillow as he does. Shane’s runs his finger across Ilya’s cheek when they finally make eye contact. Ilya squints. “What?” he asks. “Why are you practicing math in the bed? Only math here is for counting orgasms.”

    Shane is biting back a smile, Ilya can tell. “Nineteen moles. On your back. I counted.”

    Shane and Ilya, summer at the cottage, circa 2023.

    Language:
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    22 Jun 2026

  3. Public Bookmark 63

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    According to Hayden, it was not common for first-time cat owners to time precisely each one of their cat’s thrice-a-day playtimes to ensure they hit the recommended fifteen minutes, or max out their loan limit at the university library with the likes of Total Cat Mojo: The Ultimate Guide to Life with Your Cat.

    The single-mindedness with which Shane was approaching this endeavour was apparently unusual, but it was how he did most things in life—the important ones, anyway, like playing hockey, or doing his lecture readings, or calling his parents every week—so it stood to reason that he would spend forty-five minutes in an aisle of Mondou comparing the nutritional value of the wet food with the Persian on the label versus the one with the Siamese.

    -

    Or, Shane Hollander on cats, Russian vet assistants, and coming to terms with yourself.

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    22 Jun 2026

  4. Public Bookmark *

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    Ilya. He is still sleeping fitfully in Irina’s bed, face crumpled and lips turned down. Irina leans over him and presses a single kiss to the crease between his eyebrows, and then leans back just enough to watch Ilya’s big, blue eyes blink open at her.

    She holds a finger against her lips, waiting until Ilya nods before she straightens up and beckons him to get out of bed. When Ilya is standing, Irina helps him into a clean sweater, his coat, scarf, and hat. Ilya looks terribly confused, but allows himself to be dressed like a toddler, watching his mother curiously but without question. He is twelve years old, certainly old enough to dress himself, and maybe Grigory has a point when he insists that Irina coddles Ilya too much, but, good heavens, that face, how could she not?

    It is not until Ilya notices the suitcase by the bedroom door that his expression changes. His eyes darken at first, and then his face screws up minutely, looking at Irina with thinly veiled horror.

    “Be completely silent, solnyshko,” Irina breathes. “We have to go.”

     

    Irina Rozanova chooses differently.

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    20 Jun 2026

    Bookmarker's Notes

    woah

  5. Public Bookmark *

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    “I’m sorry to hear that it has been getting worse, Ilya,” Galina said, a line between her brows. “Do you think something has…triggered your depressive feelings to get worse?”

    Ilya had wondered the same, had tried to track down the exact moment his brain had decided to slowly suffocate him to death, but he had no answer. It was like the question of which came first: the chicken or the egg. He didn’t know which came first; his depression or simply his awareness of it.

    He felt as if he had always had it—he just didn’t recognize it for what it was until he became aware of its name through the Irina Foundation’s work.

    “Isn’t it just genetic?” Ilya asked. “The trigger was my birth, I think.”

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    19 Jun 2026