— Oh, you’re still here? I thought you’d already moved out, — the woman at the door flicked a light strand of hair over her shoulder and gave me an assessing look, as though I were a piece of furniture that needed to be moved. — Free up the apartment, I’m the new wife of your husband, I’ll be living here!
Her smile was flawless — like something from a toothpaste ad, but colder than a January wind. I froze, my fingers gripping the door handle, and one thought hammered in my head: this can’t be happening. It’s some kind of mistake, a ridiculous prank, a nightmare. But the reality was too painfully tangible to dismiss.
The morning was damp. I woke up alone — again. Roman had left for work without saying goodbye — again. He didn’t even leave a note on the table, not a word in his phone. Lately, this had become a habit. We had turned into neighbors living on different schedules, and every day felt more foreign and empty.
I was making myself jasmine tea when the doorbell rang. I threw an old sweater over my home T-shirt and shuffled to the door. I thought it was a courier with another package for the photo studio. But instead, standing on the doorstep was she. A blonde with cherry-red manicure. In a coat that barely covered her knees, with a handbag worth half of my photo equipment. And with that winning smile.
— Who are you? — was all I could manage to say, feeling as though my tongue had gone stiff.
— Natalia. But you can just call me Natasha, — she squeezed past me into the hallway as though I had already agreed to let her in. — Didn’t Roman tell you? Oh dear, that’s not very nice of him. Although he’s always so… indecisive on certain matters.
My apartment. My hallway. And some woman in it, talking about my husband as if he were an old acquaintance. I felt my fingers go numb as if the blood had stopped circulating. The room slowly began to spin around me, but I forced myself to focus.
— Leave, — I said quietly, but my voice sounded so fragile it seemed to belong to someone else.
— Oh, don’t be like that, — she walked further into the living room, clicking her heels on the parquet floor. — Mmmm, quite cozy. Though I’ll change these curtains. And this sofa… not to my taste. But overall, it’s livable.
The sofa that Roman and I had chosen three years ago. The curtains that I had sewn myself when I first started learning to use a sewing machine. Every item in this room was part of our history, our memories. And now, this woman, as if she were the owner, was discussing them with the same indifference one would show while picking fruits in a supermarket.
— I said, leave! — my voice rose an octave higher, echoing off the walls.
— Listen, Yan, — she turned around, leaning on the back of the chair as if she were already the hostess here. — Let’s skip the drama, shall we?
I understand, it’s unpleasant. But that’s life. Roman and I are getting registered soon. He said he would explain everything to you…
No. No. No.
— Get out, — I grabbed her by the elbow, pulling her towards the door. The expensive coat wrinkled under my fingers. — Get out of my house!
To my surprise, she didn’t resist. She let herself be pushed out the door. On the threshold, she only turned around, adjusting her hair:
— He’ll be back in an hour. You can ask him yourself if you don’t believe me. And yes, the apartment is registered in his name, you know? — her voice became icy. — You have a couple of days to pack. I’ll be understanding.
The door slammed shut. I slid down the wall to the floor. My mind was a vacuum. No tears, no screams. Just an overwhelming emptiness and the realization that all my suspicions, all the warning signs of the past months, had come together into one ugly picture.
The phone in my sweater pocket buzzed. A message from Roman: “I’ll be back in 30 minutes. We need to talk.”
I looked at those words, and my ability to feel returned. A wave of heat spread through my body. With every heartbeat, it wasn’t pain that grew — it was rage. Thirty minutes. I had thirty minutes to figure out how to meet the person who had just destroyed our life.
The click of the lock. The sound of his footsteps. I stood in the middle of the living room, straightening my back, my hands clenched into fists. Roman stopped in the doorway. His look was skittish, like a caught thief. He looked paler than usual, his tie undone, the top button of his shirt unfastened.
— She came already, didn’t she? — he asked quietly.
No denials. No excuses. Just the end. The end of everything between us.
— Three years, Roman, — my voice sounded surprisingly calm. — Three years of marriage, and you couldn’t even find the courage to say it to my face.
He walked inside, threw his keys onto the dresser. A familiar gesture. How many times had I heard that sound — metal on wood — and been happy he was home?
— I wanted to tell you myself, — he ran his hand through his hair. — It just… didn’t go according to plan.
— Didn’t go according to plan? — I repeated. — What plan, damn it, Roman? The plan to leave your wife and replace her with a model from a car dealership?
— She’s a realtor, — he corrected automatically, and I almost laughed at the absurdity of this clarification.
— Oh, of course. That changes everything, — I felt a wave of bitterness rise inside. — When? How long has this been going on?
He walked to the bar and poured himself a whiskey. Didn’t offer me any — he knew I didn’t drink strong alcohol.
— Six months, — he said, taking a sip. — At first, it was just flirting. Then… everything changed.
Six months. Half a year. That’s when he started pulling away. That’s when I noticed the first signs, but I chalked it up to his busy work schedule, to my own issues with the photo studio.
— And when were you going to tell me…?
He turned away, looking out the window. The rain was drizzling — small, unpleasant, turning the city into a gray shroud.
— Well, soon, then divorce, then registration with her. I wanted to do everything… civilly.
— Civilly, — I repeated his words like an echo, as if trying to put some sense into them. — Getting engaged to another woman behind your wife’s back — is that civil to you?
He turned sharply to me, and in his eyes, there was a flash of irritation mixed with something like shame.
— Let’s skip the melodrama, Yan, — he spoke in a tone he had never used with me before. — You felt it too, that everything stopped working a long time ago! We’re living like neighbors. You’re always in your room, I’m at work. When was the last time we really talked?
— Don’t you dare shift the blame! — I cried out, stepping so close to him that I could see every wrinkle on his face. — Don’t you dare make me an accomplice to your betrayal!
His face tensed, and he slammed his glass on the table with such force that several drops of whiskey spilled onto the polished surface. He didn’t even try to wipe them up.
— I’m not shifting blame. I’m just stating the fact: our marriage died long before Natasha. She… she’s young, carefree. With her, I feel alive.
Every word was like a blow to the ribs, leaving deep wounds that couldn’t be healed. I looked at the person I had woken up next to for a thousand days and saw a stranger. This wasn’t the Roman I knew anymore. His voice had turned cold, and his eyes were empty.
— The apartment is registered in my name before the marriage, — he continued in a businesslike tone, as if discussing another work project. — Legally, I’m not obligated…
— Spare me the legal details, — I interrupted, trying to keep my calm, though inside, everything was boiling. — You’ve made your decision. I understand.
A strange numbness took over me. Inside, there was an emptiness, as if someone had taken everything that once mattered. I no longer felt pain or anger — just a strange sense of detachment.
I went to the bedroom, got the suitcase from the closet. I started packing — methodically, carefully, as if I were preparing for a planned trip. Every item I picked up felt like a symbol of the past that no longer mattered.
Roman watched me, leaning against the doorframe, as if observing a stranger.
— You can stay at your mom’s for now. Or I’ll pay for a rental apartment for you until you…
— No need, — I cut him off, not turning my head. — Don’t need anything.
On the wall, our photos hung — wedding pictures, from trips, happy faces that now seemed like actors in someone else’s story. I took the frames down, pulled out the photos, and placed them in front of him on the dresser.
— You don’t need this either, — I said, feeling my fingers tremble slightly.
A thousand words swirled in my throat — words of betrayal, of pain, of how much I had loved him. But I stayed silent. Zipped up the suitcase. Checked my phone — one last check to make sure I hadn’t forgotten anything.
— Where are you going now? — he asked when I headed for the door.
— What difference does it make to you? — I tossed over my shoulder without looking back.
He didn’t answer. He didn’t try to stop me. He just stood there, watching as I left the apartment I had thought was our home. Step by step, I was leaving not just a place — I was leaving behind a part of my life, the part that no longer belonged to me.
Only in the taxi, looking at the gray buildings and people under umbrellas outside the window, did I feel the first tear slide down my cheek. Just one. As if acknowledging defeat. But even that tear wasn’t warm — it was cold, as if someone else had cried it.
Life at my mom’s started with a long sleep. I fell into darkness, like falling into a deep well. Two days passed without me getting out of bed. The world around seemed like a blurred stain, where all the sounds and colors were muted.
Mom would come in, leave food, and silently stroke my head. She didn’t ask questions — and I was endlessly grateful for that. Her silence became the support I needed.
On the third day, I woke up with the first rays of the sun. Something had changed. In my chest, instead of pain, there was emptiness, but not bottomless — more like a canvas waiting for the first stroke. I went to the kitchen and brewed coffee. Mom was already awake — checking her students’ notebooks.
— Good morning, — she looked at me over her glasses.
— Good morning, — I suddenly realized that for the first time in these days, my voice sounded normal. — Thanks for giving me time.
She put down her pencil.
— Have you decided what’s next?
I didn’t know. Or maybe I knew, but was afraid to say it out loud. The fear of failure, the fear of starting over — they had always been deeper in me than I thought.
— I need a studio, — I said unexpectedly for myself. — A real one. Not a corner in the apartment, but a place where people will come.
Mom smiled.
— Valentina’s son on the first floor rents a space. There used to be a flower shop.
That’s how my journey back to myself began.
The former flower shop turned out to be perfect: big windows, good lighting. The rent was high, but I took out a loan. For the first time in my life, I made the decision. I thought: it can’t get worse than this.
I worked like a madwoman. During the day — the renovation, in the evenings — photo shoots with the clients I managed to find. I slept five hours. Sometimes I cried from exhaustion. But inside, something new was growing — confidence that I had never had before.
A month later, the studio walls were adorned with my best works. I created a page on VK. My neighbor, who owned a bakery, offered to do a photo shoot of his new desserts.
People started coming, first one at a time, then more.
One day, Mom said:
— You’ve changed, Yan.
— In what way?
— Your eyes are shining. Like before, before Roman.
I realized she was right. Something had returned — what had been suppressed, buried under a layer of “convenient” relationships, where I constantly adjusted myself, shrank, and kept quiet.
One day, a man came to the studio with a seven-year-old girl. She held his hand tightly, looking around warily.
— Pavel, — he introduced himself. — And this is Sonya, my daughter. We wanted a portrait for grandma’s birthday.
There was something special about him — calm confidence, a soft gaze. I noticed the wedding ring and felt a strange stab of disappointment.
— Didn’t your wife come? — I asked, adjusting the camera.
— She’s been gone for two years, — he replied simply, without any drama. — Illness.
During the shoot, Sonya warmed up. She laughed, posed, and then saw my old camera on the shelf:
— Can I try?
I handed her the camera. She frowned, focusing on the viewfinder, and clicked the shutter. Her father watched us, and in his gaze, there was something warm, sunny.
— First steps of a future photographer, — he smiled.
When they were leaving, Pavel lingered in the doorframe.
— You make amazing portraits. Not just pictures — stories.
— Thank you, — I felt myself blush like a schoolgirl.
He came back a week later. Alone. With a box of pastries and awkwardly:
— Sonya said I should thank you. The photos turned out amazing. Grandma cried with happiness.
We drank tea right in the studio. We talked about photography, his job — he turned out to be an engineer, about Sonya, about music, about books. There was no awkwardness, no tension. Just two people who heard each other.
He started coming by. Sometimes with Sonya, sometimes alone. One day he brought a small package.
— This is for you, — he said, handing over the gift. — Well, for the studio.
Inside was a frame, and in it — a photograph. I recognized the moment: last Saturday, a kids’ workshop.
I was showing how to properly hold the camera, laughing at something. He captured the moment when I didn’t know I was being photographed.
— I decided to try, — he said with a smile. — Your influence.
In the photo, I saw the real me — alive, passionate, happy.
— You know what’s the strangest thing? — said Pavel, looking at me. — Sonya and I were looking for a photographer for a portrait. But we found so much more.
Rumors about my ex-husband reached me. They said his new wife quickly got tired of family life, that they were always fighting.
That he rarely came to the same apartment now.
It didn’t affect me anymore. It was as if I was reading about characters from a long-read book.
— I thought for a long time that I had fallen into a pit, — I said to Pavel when he once asked about the divorce. — But in reality, I just found something at the bottom that I hadn’t noticed before.
— What exactly? — he asked, and his fingers gently brushed against mine.
— Myself, — I replied. — And I will no longer be a stranger in my life.