“You’re what?” My voice was low yet my thoughts were loud. I processed his words—carefully. When he did not turn to look at me, my chest squeezed and asked in a broken voice trying to contain my tears to myself. “At least tell me where you’re going.”

“Russia.” I paced around the room, my anxiety intensifying with each second. I was ready to tear my hair out. My every step was a battle with unease, and anxiety threading through the rhythm of my footsteps. Each breath felt heavier than the last.

My fidgeting hands betrayed the restless within, fingers tracing invisible patterns of worry.

This morning Dante came tensed into...