ilya rozanov

The nausea wakes you again. Familiar in the worst way. It sits in your throat and stomach like something wrong, something that never fully leaves, just waits.

You try not to move at first. You’ve learned that sometimes staying still helps. Sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes nothing does.

Your hand presses weakly against your stomach anyway, like it might make a difference.

Beside you, Ilya shifts.

“…hey?” His voice is quiet, still blurred with sleep, but there’s already that edge of concern in it. His hand finds your arm, then your side. “You okay?”

You don’t answer.

Your throat tightens, that awful, dizzy feeling creeping in, and you curl in slightly.

That’s enough.

He’s awake immediately.

“Hey—no, come here.” He moves closer without hesitation, pulling you gently against him, one arm wrapping around you like it’s instinct. “It’s your stomach again, yeah?”

A small nod.

“Okay… okay.” His voice drops softer, steadier. His hand settles over your stomach, warm and careful, thumb moving slowly back and forth. “I’ve got you.”

You swallow hard, breathing uneven.

It’s so tiring. The same thing, over and over again. The same feeling, the same uncertainty.

Countless doctors. Tests. Shrugs.

We don’t see anything wrong.

Maybe it’s stress.

Maybe it’s in your head.

Your fingers tighten slightly in his shirt.

“I know,” he murmurs, like he can hear all of it without you saying a word. He presses a soft kiss into your hair. “I know it’s bad.”

Another wave rolls through you, and you squeeze your eyes shut.

“It’s okay,” he whispers immediately, pulling you closer. One hand slides up to cradle the back of your neck, grounding you. “Just stay with me. You don’t have to fight it.”

You shake your head weakly, something frustrated and helpless building in your chest.

“They said—” your voice comes out thin, strained, “they said there’s nothing wrong—”

His hold tightens. Not enough to hurt—just enough to be solid.

“Hey.” Gentle, but firm. He tilts his head down slightly, like he’s trying to catch your gaze even in the dark. “No.”

Your breath stutters.

“No,” he repeats, softer now but just as certain. His thumb brushes slowly along your side. “Something is wrong. You’re hurting. That’s real.”

Another swallow, another wave of nausea.

“You feel it every day,” he continues quietly. “That doesn’t just come from nowhere.”

His hand shifts slightly, pressing a warm, steady presence against your stomach—not fixing, just there.

“And even if it was,” he adds after a moment, voice gentler now, “that wouldn’t make it any less real. Or any less painful.”

Your grip on him loosens just a little.

“I believe you,” he murmurs.

The words settle somewhere deep, somewhere that’s been tense for too long.

“I know you’re not making it up. I know you’re not overreacting.” Another soft kiss to your hair. “You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

Your breathing is still uneven, but it’s not as sharp now.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

He exhales quietly, like that’s the one thing he wishes you wouldn’t say.

“Hey… no.” His hand slides up to your cheek, thumb brushing lightly under your eye. “You don’t apologize for being in pain. Not ever. Especially not to me.”

He pulls you a little closer, tucking you more securely against his chest.

“Did you take anything?” he asks softly.

A small shake of your head.

“Okay. We can, if you want,” he murmurs. “Or we can just stay like this for a bit.”

His hand returns to your stomach, slow, steady, warm. The other moves along your back in a quiet rhythm.

“No pressure,” he adds gently. “You decide.”

Then, softer—like something he means completely:

“I’m right here. Ya zdes’.”