But my father seemed to forget that he himself had once been a high school student. He didn't even attempt to engage with my arguments, repeating instead, almost like a mantra, how dangerous the streets had become and how careless the parents of my classmates were. If everyone were as vigilant as him, nothing like what happened in Kserton would ever occur—not tomorrow, not ever.
Every conversation descended into dead ends. We argued, sometimes raising our voices, neither of us willing to bend. Kostya made no effort to understand me, to find a compromise, and it irritated me more than I cared to admit.
On the morning of October 15th, I woke up with a resolve that left no room for hesitation. I began packing my school bag, throwing in a toothbrush, a couple of fresh sweaters, and pants—I'd gather the rest later. My phone had charged overnight. I turned on the computer, quickly checking flights to Rostov and train schedules. Money wasn't an issue. The only obstacles were my passport and the fact that, not yet eighteen, I couldn't technically travel alone. Usually, my mother would sign the necessary forms, but I was banking on luck—and perhaps a bit of audacity.
Determined, I stepped into the corridor, ready to leave, only to discover my bike was missing. My father was on the phone, his words fractured and incoherent without context. Not bothering to eavesdrop, I suppressed my curiosity and rushed to the front door. My faithful bike was nowhere in sight. Then it struck me—the balcony in my father's bedroom.
"Bingo," I whispered, spotting the handlebars outside the window. I crossed the room and circled the king-size bed, freezing for a moment. The bedding had been changed to the dark emerald green set with golden-orange vines I had ordered last week. On the nightstand to the right, a picture frame tilted slightly toward the bed caught my eye. Streetlight glare made the photo difficult to see, so I approached and picked it up.
An old snapshot: a woman cradling a baby in her arms—and I recognized her instantly. Beside her, holding her by the waist, was my father in his blue police uniform, hair still black and untouched by gray. Warmth and sadness surged through me. How long had it been since we had all been together—the three of us? I could barely remember. To me, my mother had always existed separately from Kostya. As I grew up, people left the house one by one. None of my mother's subsequent partners tried to replace him, and I had been secretly grateful for that. But how long had Kostya been alone before I moved in to study with him, given that the family photo still occupied such a place of honor in his bedroom? No woman would tether herself to a man whose heart still belonged to another family.
"What are you doing here?" My father's voice made me flinch.
"Nothing, just…" I hesitated, holding the frame like it was on fire.
Kostya's face softened into a warm, affectionate smile I hadn't seen in years. He pointed to the bundle—the little me—in the photo.
"This is right after we brought you home from the maternity ward. You were detained longer than expected, and I even borrowed a film camera from one of my colleagues—Vitya had just returned from vacation and helped out—" He paused, then whispered, almost to himself, "It was a good time."
His voice carried the weight of years of loneliness, and my heart ached. I couldn't leave him—not now, when we had just begun our life together as father and daughter. My life mattered, but I wasn't ready to wound him again.
"Listen, Dad," I began slowly, carefully threading my words. "We need to talk."
He sat on the bed, tapping the duvet to invite me beside him. I returned the photo to its place and sat down. Kostya waited in silence.
"I can't do this anymore. Really, I can't. I don't have enough social interaction at school. I understand how worried you are, how you want to protect me—but you can't shield me from every possible danger."
Kostya nodded, speaking slowly, stretching his words like he feared breaking something fragile:
"And what do you suggest? That I trust fate and watch my daughter become the next victim of a maniac? Sorry, but I don't play that game."
"No. Not trust fate. Act with reason. Life has to go on. If I can't walk the streets of Kserton alone, why not invite friends over? There are plenty of places to go."
"Brilliant idea!", his enthusiasm was hollow, almost mocking: "And then let other kids wander alone and fall into the maniac's hands, and you'll regret it for the rest of your life. Joyous, isn't it?"
"Well… yes.", my next attempt at compromise only stoked the fire of frustration. Thoughts of returning to my mother's house crept in, tempting me with escape. But leaving Kostya alone now felt impossible. Could there truly be a solution that satisfied both of us?
I don't know how long we sat there, me lost in thought, until the sky outside faded to a soft lavender, signaling it was time for school. My father rose.
"If there's more to say, we'll continue in the car."
"No," I shook my head. "I have nothing more to say."
Persuading him to let me walk to school alone was pointless. I got in the car and fastened my seatbelt. Kostya turned the ignition; the morning news blared from the radio. Irritated, I flipped through stations until a familiar tune reached me. Leaning back, I watched the forest blur past. The pre-dawn sun painted the treetops dark and resinous, while the spruces' skirts had almost faded into the fiery autumn. Everything around me seemed gray, lifeless, like my own spirit.
Kostya stopped at the school entrance. I grabbed my backpack and got out, choosing not to say goodbye. Classmates were already gathering, and I spotted Nikita immediately in his bright orange jacket. My father called after me:
"Asya."
I turned, expecting his words.
"This will be over soon. I promise. I'm almost on his trail."
I shut the door without replying and headed toward school. Once the car moved away, I pulled out my phone and texted my mom:
"I want to go back to Rostov."
Two blue checkmarks confirmed she had read it. She called immediately.
"Hi," I said, unsure how to begin.
"I thought you liked living with Kostya," Mom sounded confused. "What happened?"
"I'm suffocating under his overprotectiveness. I haven't even settled in before he started driving me to and from school, forbidding me to go out in the evening. The funniest part is, he won't let anyone visit either. He lectures about safety—not just for me, but for everyone. Mom, I'm exhausted. Fighting with him is pointless. He won't listen, and—"
"Dad?" Mom asked, surprised. "You've stopped calling him Kostya."
Her joy was audible, but I forced myself to focus.
"It doesn't matter. What matters is that I feel trapped. I can't spend my last year locked in four walls. I tried talking, trying to compromise, but it's useless!" My voice broke, the lump in my throat betraying my sorrow.
Mom exhaled heavily. After a pause, she said, "I'll talk to him, okay? We'll figure something out together. In the meantime, please don't do anything reckless."
"Okay," I whispered.
"Love you."
"Love you too."
She hung up. I stared at the overcast sky, seeking some small comfort. The cold wind struck my face, sharp and cleansing, as if it could purge the poison gnawing at my soul. But I knew it was unlikely my parents would find a solution. My faith in an easy fix was nearly zero. I knew their communication too well: Mom would falter, unable to push, and Kostya would not yield. Maria dislikes conflict; it's simpler for her to agree and vanish than to argue. Realizing this, a deep, hollow sadness settled over me, heavier than the autumn chill.