I spend a lot of time trying to convince myself that nothing really matters except being alive.
Guys are always confused by how soft and sentimental they are.
Maria cries unashamedly on my shoulder while I whisper and pet her cheek, but Anastasia grips my other hand and stares fiercely back at our Alexander Palace with her wet blue eyes until it is no more than a lemon-colored speck against the sunrise.
I wish I wasn't an imperial highness or an ex-grand duchess. I'm sick of people doing things to me because of what I am. Girl-in-white-dress. Short-one-with-fringe. Daughter-of-the-tsar. Child-of-the-ex-tyrant. I want people to look and see me, Anast...
My sisters and I sit together on a pair of suitcases. If we've forgotten anything, it's already too late -- our rooms have all been sealed and photographed. Anyway, Tatiana would say it's bad luck to return for something you've forgotten.
It's different now, like pushing the stop lever on my camera until nothing except the war can squeeze through the lens.
I'll pretend, I tell myself. Pretending is safer than believing.
The pair of us are like salt and sugar: such different flavors, but so close in every other way you could never sort us apart once we're together.
