After a long and exhausting three-day business trip, Andrew returned home, longing only to collapse into his bed and sleep deeply for hours.
But as he fumbled for his keys, he suddenly stopped—music was playing loudly from inside his apartment. That was unusual; Olga never played music at such a volume.
He opened the door without difficulty. The hallway light was on, but his wife’s familiar shoes were nowhere to be seen. Instead, a small, bright red purse sat neatly on the shelf—elegant, but nothing like Olga’s style.
“Olga?” he called out, slipping off his shoes. “Are you here?”
The music cut off instantly. A young woman with a short bob and casual clothes emerged from the kitchen, holding a steaming cup of tea. Her face was calm, tinged with surprise.
“And you are?” she asked, as if she belonged there.
For a moment, Andrew thought he might be on the wrong floor. But the familiar scratch on the doorframe and the cat-themed doormat—Olga’s choice—told him otherwise.
“I own this apartment,” he said slowly. “Who are you? And where is my wife?”
She set her cup down on a nearby table.
“You’re mistaken. I’m the owner now. My name is Irene, and I’ve been living here for about a month.”
A cold shiver ran down Andrew’s spine. This had to be some cruel joke.
“Wait…” he started, but Irene had already moved to another room.
Minutes later, she returned carrying a folder.
“Here are the papers: purchase agreement, ownership certificate. Everything is legitimate.”
Andrew’s hands trembled as he took the documents. Despite his fatigue, he immediately recognized Olga’s distinctive signature, complete with its familiar flourish. The deal was dated a month prior.
“This must be a prank,” he murmured. “Some kind of sick joke?”
“No joke,” Irene said calmly. “Olga sold the apartment willingly. She needed to sell and got a fair price.”
Andrew wandered into the living room, bewildered, and sank into a chair. The space felt foreign: new curtains, different furniture, unfamiliar scents. Family photos had vanished from the walls, Olga’s favorite throw wasn’t on the chair, and the books on the shelves were strangers.
He pulled out his phone and dialed Olga’s number. “The number is switched off or out of range,” came the message.
“Don’t bother,” Irene said, watching him from the sofa. “She changed her number.”
“How do you know that?” Andrew snapped, turning sharply.
“Know?” she repeated quietly. “She warned me you’d come back and try to find her. She asked me to tell you it was her choice.”
“What choice?” Andrew exploded, standing abruptly. “We’ve been together ten years! We share a business, a life. She couldn’t just…”
“Leave?” Irene finished for him. “She did. And she has.”
He rushed to the bedroom, opening the wardrobe to find only unfamiliar clothes. No trace of Olga’s belongings. New toiletries filled the bathroom. The kitchen held strange dishes. It was as if she had never lived there.
Frantic, Andrew called friends, family, colleagues. No one knew anything—or pretended not to.
“Maybe calm down?” Irene returned, offering a cup of tea. “You look exhausted.”
“To hell with the tea!” he growled. “Tell me what’s going on. You have to know!”
She shrugged, indifferent.
“All I know is she sold the apartment and decided to start over.”
“Without me?” he whispered, the room spinning.
“Was it really so perfect with you?” Irene suddenly asked.
Andrew studied her carefully for the first time. Something in her eyes felt oddly familiar. Something he had seen before…
“Who are you, really?” he asked, heart tightening.
She smiled sadly, as if understanding.
“I’m Sergei’s sister. The Sergei Olga sometimes mentioned.”
Andrew’s blood chilled. Of course, he remembered Sergei—the first love from Olga’s past. They had talked about him before… or had they? When had they last shared anything personal beyond work?
“They met by chance in a café two months ago,” Irene continued. “Olga was depressed. She told him how distant you had become. How she felt invisible—first in small ways, then completely.”
Andrew clenched his fists.
“I was working! For both of us!”
“Really?” Irene tilted her head. “When was the last time you asked how she felt? Not about business or reports, just her feelings?”
He tried to speak but found no words.
“She tried to get your attention,” Irene’s voice softened. “She took dance classes, changed her hair, started antidepressants. But you never noticed.”
Each word struck him. He vaguely remembered Olga mentioning dancing and a new haircut. But then work swallowed his focus.
“And then Sergei appeared,” Irene said, looking out the window. “He listened, he noticed. He did what you hadn’t—made her feel alive again.”
“She should’ve told me!” Andrew said sharply.
“She did,” Irene whispered. “You just didn’t hear.”
He slumped back into the chair as memories flooded his mind—how Olga invited him on vacation, spoke of something important, cried silently. Each time, he excused it, convinced it was temporary.
“Where is she now?” he asked hoarsely.
“I can’t say,” Irene shook her head. “She doesn’t want you to know.”
“I have a right…”
“To what?” she interrupted. “To trap someone in misery? To keep someone suffocating beside you?”
Andrew fell silent. Outside, twilight deepened as lights flickered on in nearby homes. He recalled nights with Olga, their dreams and plans. When had it ended? When did work become more important? When last did he say “I love you” and mean it?
“So, what now?” he asked after a pause.
Irene shrugged.
“You have two choices: fight for your rights, try to get the apartment back and find her—or let go and understand why it happened.”
“And you? Why do you have the apartment?” he asked.
“To help her start fresh,” Irene said. “Formally it’s in my name, but the money was hers—her mother’s inheritance.”
Andrew stood, heavy in his chest.
“Can I at least get my things?”
“Of course,” she nodded. “They’re all packed in storage.”
He headed to the door but paused.
“You know…I really loved her.”
“I know,” Irene said softly. “But sometimes love isn’t enough. Sometimes you have to see the person beside you before it’s too late.”
An hour later, Andrew left with a suitcase. The window of the old apartment glowed warmly, and behind the curtain he saw Irene’s silhouette.
Somewhere far away, Olga was building a new life. Without him. And he? He needed to learn where he had lost his way. Maybe losing everything is what it takes to realize what truly matters.
The heavy suitcase in his hand felt like a symbol: a decade of life, now folded into one small bag. Deep inside, a quiet thought took root: perhaps everything had happened exactly as it was meant to.
He hailed a cab and gave the address of a friend. In the rearview mirror, the apartment’s glowing windows faded into the distance.
The car pulled away. He didn’t look back. Why would he? The past was gone. Ahead lay a vast emptiness, frightening but full of promise—like a blank page waiting for a new story to be written.
But first, he had to learn to read between the lines—lest he miss the most important truths again.
His friend Max’s apartment welcomed him with familiar scents of coffee and cigarettes. Max, disheveled and clearly tired, opened the door and glanced at the suitcase.
“So, it’s serious?”
“Yeah, all of it,” Andrew said, sinking onto the sofa. “Still can’t believe it.”
Max sat down beside him silently for a moment.
“Are you going to tell me?”
And Andrew began: the woman in the apartment, the papers, Sergei. Max listened carefully, nodding now and then.
“You know, I warned you.”
“About what?” Andrew rasped.
“You were too wrapped up in work. Remember last year’s birthday? Olga threw a party, invited everyone, baked a cake… and you spent the whole evening glued to your phone. Work, work, work…”
Andrew winced at the memory. He recalled how Olga had gathered everyone they cared about, and he had been distracted the entire night by work emails. It felt like nothing could wait until tomorrow.
“The worst part is, I can’t blame her,” he sighed, staring at the ceiling. “She was right—I stopped seeing her.”
“What now?”
“I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t know.”
Days merged into one another. Andrew went to work, but everything felt unreal and distant. Tasks slipped through his fingers; his mind was elsewhere. Everyone at the office already knew—rumors spread fast in a small town.
One day, his gaze lingered on a photo on his desk—he and Olga on a vacation three years ago. Their last holiday together. In the picture, she smiled warmly, holding his hand. When was the last time they had shared a moment like that?
At that moment, his phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number:
“If you want my advice, start small. Notice what’s happening around you. Look at the people who are in your life right now.”
It was Irene. Andrew almost deleted the message but instead saved the number.
That evening, returning to Max’s, he asked:
“How’s Marina? Did she finish her studies?”
“Of course,” Max smiled. “She’s a teacher now. The kids adore her.”
Andrew was surprised. He had been at their wedding but never asked about Marina’s progress. How many lives had passed by unnoticed?
The next day, he stopped by the accounting office just to check on Nina Petrovna, who’d been ill. The woman was initially confused but soon smiled and spoke about her grandchildren for a long while.
Returning to Max’s, Andrew chose a different route past his old home with Olga. Sometimes the lights were on, sometimes dark. One day, he saw Irene leaving with a yoga mat and sportswear. She noticed him and gave a brief nod.
A week later, Andrew texted Irene:
“You were right. I missed too much.”
Her reply was almost immediate:
“Better late than never.”
That night, Andrew told Max:
“All my life, I chased the future: saving money, building the business, making plans. I forgot to live in the moment.”
“And now?”
“Now I want to be present. Just be.”
He started noticing things previously overlooked: the smell of fresh pastries in the morning, the janitor whistling while cleaning, children laughing on their way to school. Before, he missed it all, lost in his phone or wrapped in work.
A month later, Andrew moved into a new studio apartment in a newly built neighborhood. He packed his things and thanked Max for his hospitality.
“Will you stay for dinner?” Max asked. “Marina baked a delicious pie.”
“Sure, I’ll stay,” Andrew smiled. “Now I have time.”
That evening, he messaged Irene:
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For making me see. Did you really say those words?”
“Maybe,” she replied mysteriously.
In the new apartment, silence reigned—a contrast to the past. No footsteps, no rustling pages, no kitchen clinks. But it was a peaceful silence, like a blank canvas waiting for color.
He took out an old photo album, the only relic from his past. Their first date, a seaside trip, a housewarming party. So many moments once taken for granted. How had he failed to appreciate them?
Months later, Irene sent a brief message:
“Olga is now in Saint Petersburg.”
“How is she?”
“Happy. She’s studying design, a dream she’s long held.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Now you do.”
Andrew closed the album and looked out the window. Life unfolded around him in this new place—new sounds, scents, faces. Somewhere, far away, Olga was chasing her dream. And he? He was learning again to truly see the world. To notice details. To feel.
Deep inside, he realized this was just the start of a long journey—to rediscover himself, to live fully, to love deeply.
Outside, snowflakes began to fall. For the first time in ages, Andrew marveled at each one, as he once had in childhood—when the world seemed magical.
Perhaps that’s where life truly begins: appreciating the simple moments. Being present. Right here, right now.