We wake up early — I need to stop by the dormitory, and then head to the institute with Katrin. The morning begins with a small but lively argument. For Rebel Girl, I choose blue jeans, which she has already grown to hate, a white blouse, and a warm sweater on top. As soon as she sees my outfit, her eyes widen in horror, and the theatrics begin.
"Are you serious?!" her voice rings out like a taut string. "Do you want me to look like a retired grandma?!"
Katrin protests so loudly that I think I might go deaf. Her screams about what she will do to me for putting her through such torment echo through the apartment. But I stand firm, unyielding as a rock. Eventually, she gives in, though not without a promise of revenge.
"You'll regret this," she hisses as she ties the laces on her boots.
I merely smirk. Truth be told, I feel a little sorry for her. I could have given her a dress with the same sweater, but I decided not to humiliate her in front of her classmates. Though, honestly, I am curious how they will react to her new look. And, of course, to my changes.
When we reach the dormitory, I leave Katrin waiting outside. Opening the door, I see Dima sitting on the bed, engrossed in his phone.
"Hey," I greet him, trying to sound neutral.
"Well, look who's back," he replies with obvious sarcasm in his voice.
"Well, I haven't been gone that long since I'm back," I shoot back, starting to pack the things I need into my backpack.
I need to come back here this evening to collect the rest of my belongings. Most of my things have already been moved to Katrin's apartment. We have grown accustomed to living together, and I absolutely love it.
"Are you staying long, or are you going to run off to her again?" his tone is so disdainful that I feel anger bubbling up inside me.
"She has a name, as you put it. It's Katrin. If you've developed amnesia in the two weeks I've been gone and started forgetting the names of girls you chased after a month ago, and kissed right here on my bed three weeks ago, let me remind you," I say, barely containing my irritation.
"Oh, listen to you! Spend a little time hanging around with her, and suddenly you start raising your voice," he sneers, standing up from the bed and walking toward me, his voice carrying a clear threat.
But I am not the same person I used to be. I have changed during this time, and his intimidation tactics no longer scare me.
"What's the matter? Upset that she's having fun with me and dumped you? Or is it just envy?" I know I have hit a nerve, but I don't care.
The guy suddenly swings his fist at me, his face contorted with rage, his eyes burning like coals, and his lips trembling with anger. In that moment, time seems to slow down, and I feel a cold sweat run down my back, and my heart pounds so loudly that its beat echoes in my ears. But instincts take over — my hand shoots forward with lightning speed, grabbing his wrist. I feel the tension in his muscles and the heat of his skin.
His breathing becomes heavy and ragged, and a flicker of fear crosses his eyes as I, without hesitation, strike him in the stomach. My fist lands squarely, sinking into the soft tissue, and I feel his body convulse in pain. Dima doubles over like a crumpled piece of paper in a fist, and collapses to the floor with a muffled groan. His face turns pale, his lips twisted in a grimace of agony. He tries to inhale, but his body shudders uncontrollably.
I stand over him, feeling the adrenaline coursing through my veins, my hands trembling slightly. Fragments of thoughts race through my mind: "What if I hadn't reacted in time? What if he had struck first?" But now my neighbor lies before me, helpless and weak, and I can't shake the strange mix of guilt and relief that washes over me. A heavy silence fills the room, broken only by his labored breathing and the thud of my heartbeat, which gradually returns to normal. I didn't want this, but in that moment, I had no choice. And now, as I look at him, I realize — everything has changed. An invisible line has been drawn between us, one that can never be erased.
"Don't you dare talk to me about my girl like that. I never allowed myself to do that when you two were dating. And if you ever decide to settle an argument with your fists again — you'll only have yourself to blame. I won't let you treat me like I'm nothing and talk to me with such disrespect anymore. Understood?"
Dima only grunts in response — a low, hoarse sound escaping his clenched lips. His face remains pale, and beads of sweat form on his forehead as if he's just finished an exhausting run. He frantically clutches his stomach, his fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt as though trying to contain the pain, to keep it from spreading through his entire body. In his eyes — a mix of fear, anger, and humiliation, but the earlier fury has faded.
I feel something shift inside me — pity, perhaps, or the realization that it's over. My heart, which just a second ago was racing with adrenaline, begins to calm, and I realize that I don't want to continue this. I don't want things to escalate any further.
Taking a deep breath, I reach out my hand. My palm is damp but steady. I don't think he will hit me, push me away, or ignore me — I just want to give him a chance to stop.
My neighbor looks at my hand, then back at me, and something elusive flickers in his eyes.
"Come on, let me help you up."
"I don't need your help, I can do it myself," he waves me off, but his eyes betray his hurt and anger.
"Stop playing the hero and just give me your hand," I order, trying to sound firm, though a note of impatience still slips through my voice.
Finally, he reluctantly reaches out his hand, as if afraid to reveal his weakness. I tightly grip his palm, cold and trembling, and help him up. His body feels heavy, as though he's carrying not just the pain but something greater, something invisible. Step by step, we make it to the bed, and he sinks onto it with relief, as if shedding an unbearable weight.
"Is she the one who taught you to hit like that?" he mumbles, and I feel the shadow of her name lurking in his words again.
He talks about her, but not directly, as if afraid to say her name out loud. This time, however, there's no usual sarcasm or bitterness in his voice — just a strange, almost painful sincerity.
"No, Katrin didn't teach me how to fight," I try to sound calm, though something inside me twinges.
"Then who did? Because your punch is actually pretty good," he tries to smile but immediately clutches his stomach, wincing in pain. I can't hold back a laugh, but it quickly dies when I see Dima writhing. His face contorts into a grimace, and I feel my amusement give way to a slight sense of guilt.
"Three idiots taught me. Well, one at first, and then two together," I answer him vaguely, trying not to go into details.
The memories of those days are like old scars: they no longer hurt, but touching them still sends an unpleasant chill through me.
"What do you mean?" his eyes burn with curiosity, as if he's trying to solve some puzzle.
"I got into two fights. First, one idiot beat me up, but then I beat him. Actually, alcohol and anger helped me with that," I pause, feeling a lump rise in my throat. "And then other guys decided they could beat me two-on-one. But, taught by past experience, I still managed to handle them. So, that's the story," I finish, trying to sound indifferent, though everything still churns inside me from those memories.
"And all of this happened in one day?" his eyes become so huge that I almost laugh again. He looks as though I've just told him about some incredible feat.
"No," I smile, feeling the tension gradually ease."It happened at different times. The difference is about a week and a half."
"You're something else, neighbor!" Dima sincerely admires me, and there is genuine warmth in his voice. "Tell me more about what happened to you during this time," he asks, and real curiosity can be read in his eyes.
But I don't get a chance to answer. My phone rings, and I hear my beloved's voice:
"Where are you? Do you want me to stand here forever waiting for you?" her shout is so loud that I have to pull the phone away from my ear for a moment. There's irritation in her voice, but I know there's more hidden behind it — worry, maybe even fear.
"I'm on my way, baby. Just wait a little longer."
"Fine, I'm waiting," she gives in, and I feel the tension in her voice ease slightly.
I end the call and slip the phone into my pocket, feeling my heart beat a little faster. The whole time, Dima has been watching me closely, his eyes full of questions, but he remains silent.
"You two have quite the relationship. I didn't think Katrin would let herself be called that," I notice his eyebrows rising. It seems his level of surprise only grows with each passing minute.
"She lets me get away with a lot of things," I wink at him conspiratorially, feeling a faint smile appear on my lips. "Alright, I've got to go, or I'll be late for her."
Dima grabs my arm, and I feel his fingers tremble slightly.
"Are you coming back here, or are you leaving for good?" there's a note of anxiety in his voice, as if the neighbor is afraid of being left alone.
"I'll be gone for good soon," I answer. Before leaving, I decide to add: "If I were you, I'd be in class today. It's going to be very interesting, because my girlfriend and I will be there. Oh, and by the way, she's got a new wardrobe too."
His eyes widen again, and he scrambles to get dressed, as if caught by a sudden gust of wind. I sigh, grab my backpack, and leave the room. My heart feels heavy, but I know I am doing the right thing. Katrin is waiting for me outside, and the moment I see her, I feel the tension begin to melt away. More than anything, I feel a small spark of hope flickering deep inside me — the hope that everything will be alright.
"Is everything okay?" my girlfriend asks, noticing my gloomy expression.
"Everything's fine. Let's go, or we'll be late."