"Ivan."
Lydia's voice was soft, almost like a whisper.
She called him again, a little louder this time. "Ivan… Ivan."
Still nothing.
He was right there—sitting across from her, barely a few feet away—but it felt like he wasn't. Like he wasn't even in the room.
He had stopped moving. His wine glass stayed frozen mid-air. His eyes were wide but unfocused, staring into nothing.
"Ivan?" Lydia tried again. Her voice trembled now. Her heart had started to race. She was starting to get scared.
But Ivan didn't hear her.
Because in his mind, he wasn't here anymore.
He was sixteen again.
