It is unbearable. Every second of my pretense tastes bitter on my tongue, as if I am chewing burning embers. It is so hard to behave around him, as if I am not a person, not the woman he once loved madly, but cruel, cold, cynical — the way I want him to see me. I try with all my might to instill disgust in him. To make him think of me with hatred, so that at the very moment I disappear from his life, it will be easier for him to breathe. I want him to hate me, so that just hearing my name ignites irritation inside him, not longing. Because only if he hates me — will he be able to forget. Quickly, finally. He won't return in his thoughts, won't suffer, won't seek meetings, won't hope.
That night… it isn't our most beautiful. We have been through more tender, passionate, trembling moments. But that night is the last. That already makes it eternal. It makes it sharp, cutting through the heart like glass. I don't remember all the words. I don't remember all the touches. But I remember how from time to time my eyes fill with tears. They start suddenly — like a sudden downpour on a cloudless day. I turn away, hold my breath, clench my teeth, wipe my cheeks with my palm, pretending to just fix my hair. My beloved must not see. He must not suspect. Because if he understands, if he sees even a drop of truth — everything collapses.
I look into his eyes, those endlessly familiar, deep, beloved eyes — and inside, everything tears apart. I want to fall to my knees before him, lay my head on his chest, hug him as if my life depends on it. And maybe it really does. I want to whisper, "Sorry… I didn't want to… I can't live without you…" But I can't. Everything I say tonight is a lie. From the first breath to the last look. From harsh words to cold touches. Everything in me is acted out, made up, cruel. I play a role that even makes me sick.
How painful it is — to say nasty things to the person you love with all your being and see something break, dim, fade in his eyes. How in a moment he stops recognizing you. As if the room becomes dark and cold, and you yourself press the switch. The pain doesn't scream — it chills from within.
Last night, despite everything, is beautiful. Strange to say, right? But I feel how he tries for me. As if he knows it is the last time, but doesn't want to admit it. Maxim touches me gently, tremblingly. Every movement of his is like a farewell. I close my eyes and try to absorb every second. To imprint the line of his collarbone, the curve of his lips, the taste of his skin, the smell of his hair into my memory. I remember him as one remembers the last pages of a beloved book. Those are moments of euphoria and pain, merging into a strange cocktail.
There will be no more moments like this. That's it. The end. I put a period, albeit with a trembling hand. Now my whole life is this child, our baby, our little human growing inside me. Everything left of our love is now inside me. As long as I have the financial means, I won't work. I want to spend as much time as possible with him or her, watch how they grow, breathe, smile. Later, when they're a bit older — I'll go back to work. Leave them with grandma. And then they'll start to understand this world on their own.
I will give this child everything. All my tenderness, my strength, my life. The education may not be as lavish as that of children from wealthy families. I won't be able to provide a school with a pool or summer trips abroad every year. But I will pass on my knowledge. Teach them to think, feel, love. And I will also save for university — so they won't have the problems I had. I'm sure he or she will inherit our strength, intelligence, character.
I sit on the bed. Empty. Maxim left a few hours ago. He should return closer to evening. Until then, everything has to be ready. I gather my courage and begin packing his things. Every shirt, every sweater smells like him. His scent penetrates beneath my skin, envelops me, won't let go. I fold everything into boxes. Leave a few things out — I can't help it. They remain nearby, like a part of him. Like proof that it is not a dream. And most importantly — I still have our little one. His piece inside me. Small, but such an important flame.
Maxim always tenderly strokes my belly. Kisses it, talks to it as if it were a living being. Then I could never have imagined that inside would start beating another heart, created from our love. I imagine how he would smile touching it. How proud he would be. How much he would love.
I will tell the baby only the kindest things about his father. I will try to convey how he is the light in my life, how his smile could illuminate even the darkest moments. He is the support who always stands nearby, ready to help and protect. I will speak of him warmly, lovingly, because that's exactly how I remember him — bright, kind, real.
I don't yet know how I will explain his absence. It's so painful that every time I try to think about it, it feels like someone squeezes my chest tightly. It's hard to imagine how to explain that he is no longer here, that there will be no conversations, no moments when he could just be near. It's unbearable.
But I will think of something. Somehow I will explain to myself and others how to survive this emptiness. Though words don't come yet, I hope they will with time. And I will be able to say all this about him. No matter what grief I face, I will try not to forget what he is and that for me he will always remain a light.
When everything is packed, I place the boxes against the wall, feeling how heavy this last, completed stage is for me. Each box is a symbol of what I leave behind, that I am leaving, closing this chapter.
I take a pen and begin writing a note. The last words. The last words I can leave him. They seem so meaningful, yet at the same time completely meaningless, as if they can change nothing. Maybe he tears up the letter right away. Maybe he doesn't even open it. And that thought squeezes painfully in my chest. But I must do it anyway. I have to put on paper at least what I cannot say to him face to face — everything left inside. Because the words I don't say cannot disappear, and they remain with me like a heavy burden.
After lunch, I will call a courier. He takes the boxes to the dormitory, and my heart aches at the thought that maybe Dima will receive them. Doesn't matter. The main thing is that Maxim gets everything. I cannot leave a single thing he might lose. Everything I leave must reach him. Everything except my heart. That I keep for myself. Forever. It stays with me, despite everything that happens, despite the pain that hasn't yet left. Because in this heart remains what I will never be able to give away. Love for my boy.
Next, I have to call Vlad. Yes, that very Vlad — calm, balanced, restrained, a little ironic but always polite. He is almost a stranger among the noisy company that gathers in our home on that ill-fated last day of my desire, the last capricious sip of life "before"... He is not the center of attention, doesn't shout nonsense, doesn't fight. He just sits, listens, watches — as if he feels everything. And now, in this bare, almost chilling silence, I remember him. The only one to whom I can entrust at least part of this agony.
Taking the phone, I stare at the screen for some time, as if the very thought of calling someone seems like a betrayal. But I have to. Everything that now isn't about running away is a brake. I scroll through contacts, find his number, and my fingers freeze for a moment above the call button. My heart pounds in my throat. I feel blood pulse in my temples. The phone seems to burn my palm.
I press. Rings.
"Hello?" His voice is sleepy, muffled. Probably he is dozing, maybe lying half-asleep, bent over a book as usual.
"Hi," I exhale. I try to speak clearly, calmly, but my voice still trembles somewhere deep inside. "It's Katrin."
"I figured," a hint of a smile flickers in his voice. "You're on my list."
For a moment something bright clicks inside. A simple phrase, but so human. Not ignoring, not irritation. Just a fact, just warmth.
"I'm calling about something. Can you come to me? You remember where I live?"
Silence for a moment. He obviously thinks.
"Yes, I remember... But Kat... Max won't mind, right?" His voice carries worry. Genuine, not theatrical. He really doesn't want to cause extra pain. "I just don't want any misunderstandings."
"He won't be here. He won't return before evening. So don't worry."
"When should I be there?" he asks.
I glance at the clock. My heart tightens slightly. Time presses. I more and more catch myself looking at the hands with unconscious anxiety. As if every minute steals from me a piece of the chance to fix something.
"Within an hour, will that work?" he asks.
"A little earlier if possible. But overall — yes, that works," I answer and try not to show how much I need him to come as soon as possible.
"Then wait. I'll come soon," he says, and his voice sounds like he is really ready to support, listen, just be there. And that already means a lot.
"I'll wait," I whisper almost inaudibly and hang up.
After finishing the call, I hold the phone in my hand for a few more seconds, as if I don't dare to let go of that thin, almost invisible thread of connection I just establish. Silence falls as soon as the connection is broken. So dense, muffled, pressing. Then I put it on the table and, feeling anxiety begin to rise inside again, go to the kitchen.
I need tea. At least something ordinary, simple, normal.
I go to the table and turn on the kettle. My hands tremble as I set it. As if I am not just boiling water, but planting an explosive device. The same thought spins in my head: hurry... hide... leave... don't break. The sound of boiling water becomes salvation. I just stand and watch the bubbles start to beat inside the glass vessel — and a thousand thoughts run through my head.
I need to pack things — mine, the remnants of myself. But to pack them so Maxim won't notice. So everything seems usual. No panic, no hurry. Just as if I am at home. Just as if nothing is happening. And tomorrow morning — to the suburbs. My grandmother lives there. My dearest, strongest woman. The one who pulled me out of complete oblivion. My only quiet shore in this turbulent ocean.
I understand: she is not thrilled about my "progeny," as she would call it. But she will accept me. I know. I knew she would accept me. Even if she doesn't understand at first. Even if she judges. Even if there is a hidden shadow of pain in her gaze — for me, for the child, for repeating my mother's fate. She once took on such responsibility, raising me instead of my mother. And now she probably fears everything will repeat. I just need to prove: I am not her. I won't run away. I won't give up my baby. I am a mother, not a runaway. I am not like that. I am different. I want to be different.
The tea is too hot, but I take a sip anyway. Bitter. Already familiar. As if my entire inner world now consists of bitterness — from drinks to thoughts.
Half an hour later, there is a knock on the door. Earlier. Much earlier than I expect. Vlad. He comes much earlier than promised. And somehow it touches me more than I expect. I quickly fix my hair, wipe away the tears that for some reason start gathering again in the corners of my eyes, and go to open the door. I open it — and see him. He stands on the threshold in a black jacket, hair tousled by the wind, attentive eyes. There is something strange in them — not judgment, not pity. Just... understanding.
Of all that noisy, colorful, artificial company that once joyfully fills our house, I can trust only him. Only Vlad. Because he alone seems real. And now I need at least something real — so I don't completely fall apart.
I call him not because I need help. I need someone who can see me like this, in this moment, and not turn away. Who won't moralize, blame, or advise. Just be nearby. Even silently. Even for an hour.