Andrei stood by the window, his silhouette etched against the bleak October dusk. “I just can’t live like this anymore,” he said, turning away from Olga. “You’re always so flawless, so effortless—like a pair of old, worn slippers.”
Olga’s eyes traced his outline in the soft light. For two decades, she had watched that back: the gradual silvering at his temples, the subtle changes in his stance. And now, after all that time, he claimed it was impossible.
“So, what now?” she asked quietly, her voice steady, emotion carefully contained.
“I’m leaving. For someone else,” he spat out.
A faint smile touched her lips. Of course, it was another woman. Had it ever been anything else? Men don’t vanish without a destination.
“You’re still the same,” he snapped, spinning to face her, anger flashing in his eyes. “Cold as ever. Don’t you ever feel anything?”
“What do you want me to do?” she replied. “Throw myself at your feet? Rip my hair out? Beg you to stay?”
“Anything!” he almost whimpered. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve been seeing her?”
“Three months,” Olga said with calm finality.
Andrei froze, disbelief clouding his features.
“How did you…”
“I found the messages in August,” she said simply.
“And you kept silent all this time?”
“What good would it have done?”
His expression twisted—part anger, part shock, and a strange kind of disappointment.
“That’s exactly what drives me insane! You don’t even have the capacity to be jealous!”
Something inside Olga quivered. Incapable? She remembered the countless sleepless nights, the secret glances at his phone while he slept, the anxious waiting for him to come home. But she remained silent. Twenty years had taught her one lesson: some wounds can only be accepted, not fixed.
“Her name’s Lena,” he said, as if delivering the final blow. “She’s vibrant, alive, everything’s different with her.”
“Of course,” Olga shrugged. “The new always looks better than the familiar.”
“That’s just like you—always with your wise sayings!” Andrei exploded. “It’s impossible to live with you. That calm, detached tone, those endless lectures…”
“Sorry to disappoint,” she said with a bitter smile, heading for the door.
“Where are you going?”
“To the store. Need to get dinner.”
“I said I’m leaving!”
“Doesn’t mean I stop eating,” she retorted and left.
The elevator took Olga down to the street. She walked mechanically through the store, selecting what she needed and paying without thought. Only when she leaned against the building wall outside did the weight of it all settle.
Twenty years. Over two thousand dinners shared. Millions of tiny moments turned routine. And now, “you don’t even get jealous.”
Her phone buzzed—an old friend’s message: “Want to meet up?”
Olga blinked, surprised. How did she know? Probably Andrei had already told everyone. How did he explain it? “I’m leaving my wife because she’s too perfect”?
She typed back: “All good. Let’s meet next week.”
Today, though, she needed solitude. To let twenty years end with a single sentence sink in. To figure out what came next.
And to understand why his last words stung more than the fact he was leaving: “You can’t even be jealous.” Maybe she’d hidden her feelings so well that she convinced herself they weren’t there at all.
Weeks passed, and Olga discovered a painful truth: silence can roar louder than words. Especially in the evenings, when there’s no need to cook for two, no familiar key turning in the lock.
The first days, she went through the motions: buying food for two, washing clothes for two, cooking for two. Then she realized—she could change everything. No dinners needed. She could blast her favorite music and dance alone. She could rearrange the furniture or paint the walls vibrant colors. She could start living for herself.
Friends called constantly.
“Let’s meet. Just to talk. To distract ourselves.”
“No thanks,” she replied softly. “Really, no thanks.”
They didn’t believe her. Thought she was barely holding on. But she was—just in a different way.
One morning, at the supermarket, she froze near the tea aisle. There stood Mikhail. The same Mikhail from her past. Twenty-three years ago, they met at the library—he was working on a dissertation, she was cramming for exams. Months of conversation, walks, connection. Then Andrei came along—steady, serious, settled.
“Olya?” Mikhail’s voice was warm, surprised. “It’s been a while.”
He hadn’t changed much—some gray strands, a few more lines—but his eyes still held that warmth.
“Back in town?” she asked, her voice steady.
“A month ago. I’m opening a branch here.”
“Your business?”
She smiled, recalling how impossible it once seemed.
“Dreams can come true,” he said with a chuckle. “Though rarely as expected. Coffee? There’s a great place nearby.”
In the past, she’d hesitate—wonder what Andrei thought, what people said. But now…
“Let’s.”
The café smelled of cinnamon and fresh pastries. Mikhail spoke of moving to St. Petersburg, starting over, failing, rising.
“And you?”
“I’m learning to live again.”
“Anything happen?”
“My husband left. Said he couldn’t live with me.”
Instead of pity, Mikhail looked at her with genuine interest.
“How does it feel—being impossible?”
She laughed—real and light for the first time in years.
“It turns out… everything’s possible. Even what I forgot to hope for.”
“For example?”
“Like sitting in a café with someone I barely know, talking about life.”
“Barely know?” Mikhail raised a brow. “What about those months in the library?”
“Twenty-three years ago.”
“Maybe it’s time to pick up where you left off,” he smiled. “Want to try?”
And instead of saying no, she surprised herself.
“Let’s.”
Outside, rain washed the city, cleansing the old and making way for the new.
Andrei sat alone in his temporary apartment. Three months had passed since he saw Olga again, and those months reshaped everything.
He thought he knew her after twenty years of marriage. But this woman—bright, open, alive—was who he had always wanted. Only now, after walking away.
His phone buzzed—a realtor’s message: “Apartment viewing tomorrow at 10.”
He ignored it. Month after month, empty apartments. Empty feelings. Maybe it wasn’t the apartments.
The doorbell rang. A kind elderly neighbor appeared.
“Andrei Petrovich, the computer’s acting up again. Can you help?”
It was their weekly ritual. She asked for help, offered tea, told stories.
“I once left my husband,” she said quietly.
Surprised, Andrei listened.
“I thought life was dull. I wanted more. I left for someone young and lively. But happiness isn’t found out there.”
“Where then?”
“In appreciating what you have. Usually, too late.”
He watched a young couple moving in next door—laughing, teasing, tender.
“Did you go back to your husband?”
“No. He remarried. But I learned that happiness isn’t big moments. It’s the small things. Morning coffee, a favorite cup, someone who knows you and loves you still.”
Andrei thought of Olga’s notes, her quiet understanding, her knowing glance.
He had considered it boring.
He stood. “Thanks for the tea. I have to go.”
“Come again,” she smiled knowingly.
At home, he scrolled through Lena’s social media—photos with a new man, perfect filters, hashtags about living fully.
But he realized it was a facade. Like Olga’s life once was. He had traded reality for illusion, the familiar for the unknown, only to lose the real.