Maxim goes outside again to get his laptop and phone from the car. I am left alone, and in this moment, everything around me feels heavier. Tension builds inside me, like a fog wrapping around every corner of my consciousness. I force myself to take off his jacket and hang it on the coat rack, but I can't help noticing its scent, his presence lingering in the air like an invisible shadow. My hands nervously touch the fabric, but even that doesn't rid me of the emptiness filling my chest. Everything feels heavy, unrealistically empty. My fingers instinctively reach for the pockets, and I realize only when I feel a lighter and a pack of cigarettes. It is strangely familiar, like returning to a past I thought I had long left behind.
Could it really be true? I open the pack and discover that only a few cigarettes remain inside. And not just any cigarettes—the brand is the very one I used to smoke. It is like a small missing detail, one I hadn't realized I needed, yet it shatters my perception nonetheless. Everything I tried to forget now returns to me in the form of this familiar pack.
At that moment, he comes back, carrying the laptop and phone. He doesn't notice me immediately, continuing toward the living room. I freeze, feeling his presence wash over me in waves again. He walks past and sits on the couch, opening his laptop as if nothing happened between us. I follow him, my steps feeling unusually heavy, as if I can't summon the strength to move, even though I know I have to. But each step seems not to belong to me, and the closer I get, the harder it is to be near him.
"Your cigarettes are running out; you need to buy new ones. I go to work tomorrow, I can get them, or do you want to?" I say, sitting next to him, trying to act normal, though inside I tremble with questions and doubts.
He looks up, not immediately, as if he is thinking.
"I don't smoke," he replies shortly, almost indifferently.
"No way! Then who was smoking outside ten minutes ago?" I can't hold back, completely unable to understand him. It is too strange to believe.
He waves it off, his voice dry, almost irritated.
"I know how many cigarettes I have in my pack."
Those words make my heart tighten again, as if it is trying to burst out of my chest. The nervous tension I have been holding back suddenly breaks. He starts to annoy me. My patience melts like spring snow—slowly but relentlessly disappearing, leaving only cold irritation behind.
I can't take it. At some point, I am simply overwhelmed. Standing up, I go to him without thinking. With each step, my breathing grows heavier, and only one question echoes in my mind—what am I even doing? But when I reach him, I can't hold back anymore. With a sharp motion, I close his laptop, as if trying to pull him out of this electronic reality that feels so distant, so alien. I want him to look away from that world, even for a second. All I can do now is try to reclaim his attention.
"Stop acting like this," I say, looking him in the eyes. In that moment, it becomes clear that all these years of silence and unspoken words lead to this point. To the point where words can no longer express everything I feel.
"How?" he looks as if he doesn't understand what I mean.
"As if I… to you…"
I want to say "nobody," but the word sticks in my throat. Firmly stuck, like something unbearable that I can't bear. I know that in reality, it is true. After all these years, we have essentially become nobody to each other. We don't exist in each other's lives the way we once did. But I don't say it aloud. We stand on the edge, where words lose meaning, where feelings have become cold and inexpressible.
I turn away silently, trying to leave, but suddenly Max jumps up, pulls me back, and unexpectedly puts me on his lap. His movements are quick and confident, as if it is something natural, requiring no thought. I feel his strong, determined arms wrap around my waist, his breath hot against my neck. Something inside me contracts, and I can't shake the feeling that in this moment all my resolve has vanished.
I shrink from his touch, feeling his body pressing relentlessly against mine. My heart races uncontrollably. Thoughts flash through my mind, as if something inside me is trying to escape, but I can't summon the courage. His gaze is intense and confident, holding a certain inner strength that makes me want to run and stay at the same time.
"I tell it as it is. I don't smoke regularly, but just in case, I keep a pack at home and in the car. There aren't many, usually no more than ten," he explains to me like to a little girl, with a barely noticeable reproach in his voice.
"Then why do you smoke sometimes?" I ask, a question that has tormented me since I saw him smoking.
I continue sitting on his lap, feeling his hands gently stroke my hair and back. His touches are tender, almost weightless, as if he is afraid to scare me away or break the fragile magic of the moment. Every motion brings warmth and a strange calm that penetrates to the very depths of my soul. It is so cozy, so unusually soft, that I just want to lie on him, press my cheek to his chest, close my eyes, and forget—to forget everything that came before.
I feel his breath—steady, warm—and with every exhale, a poignant feeling blooms inside me. As if this moment is ripped from another life, one where everything is simpler, more honest, more tender. Where I don't need to be strong. But I hold myself together, sitting upright, trying not to move, as if afraid that allowing myself to relax would mean losing control. Or worse, wanting to stay in his arms forever.
"When I feel bad or extremely nervous, I smoke a few. It calms me personally," he answers calmly, almost indifferently, as if speaking of something ordinary. As if cigarette smoke is a temporary refuge for him—a place where everything quiets down, if only briefly.
"Why did you smoke today?" I ask, no longer expecting an answer, but still curious. Or rather, desperately wanting to understand. I want to reach the reason, the meaning, the pain he hides behind indifference.
"I think the answer is obvious," Maxim says again mysteriously, not revealing his thought. His words hang in the air like smoke—dense, sticky, troubling.
"Not for me," I reply, with a slight reproach.
My voice carries a plea, almost a begging: "Talk to me. Don't hide." I hint that he needs to be more straightforward. I don't need a riddle—I need the truth.
"Where should I start…" he wonders aloud, and I hold my breath, feeling everything grow serious again. Time seems to freeze. My heart pounds in my throat. I don't know what to expect, but I feel—it's going to hurt.
"From the very beginning," I suggest, and that is clearly my mistake. Because the "beginning" in this story is not a casual conversation over tea. It is the point where all the pain starts. All the unspoken words. All the loss.
"In the morning, I found out that you took money from my mother to leave me. At lunch, I learned I had a daughter. And by evening, I saw you again, after three and a half years, and met our daughter for the first time. The day was hard, as I've said before," his words cut through me and my soul like a knife. Cold. Sharp. Merciless.
I feel the weight of it all. In my chest, it is as if an invisible fist is squeezing. Everything I have been hiding for so long bursts out. His voice is calm, but a storm lies behind it. And in that storm, I recognize both my guilt and my pain. Every word carries reproach, laced with exhaustion. I want to say something, to justify myself, to explain—but my tongue won't move. Because deep down, I know: he is right. And that knowledge is the bitterest of all.
I lower my eyes, not knowing what to say to fix everything. A lump sticks in my chest, constricting my breathing, and my throat tightens so much that no sound can escape. I stay silent, helplessly running through in my mind everything I could say, but every phrase seems insufficient, meaningless, empty. The only answer spinning in my head is an apology. A simple "I'm sorry," soaked with pain, guilt, and remorse.
But what can I say? What words can heal what has long since cracked and shattered into pieces? Words don't bring back lost time. They don't erase mistakes, cure disappointments, or mend the wounds left by silence, stubbornness, and fear. I just sit there, head bowed, feeling my heart pound loudly somewhere in my throat, my fingers trembling from restrained emotion, and the pain growing inside from the realization—perhaps I am already too late.
"Alright, Rebel Girl, I have to work."
After those words, he lets me go, and I, clenching my fists, stand up. My heart pounds in my temples, and my chest seethes with rage mixed with pain and resentment. Each step echoes dully inside me, as if I am walking through my own feelings, trying not to tear myself apart. I head to the kitchen—the only place where I can hide, even for a moment, from him, from myself, from everything that has just happened.
Later, we have dinner together at the same table, as if nothing has happened. The room is filled with a tense, sticky silence, as though the air has absorbed all the things we haven't said to each other. Maxim eats silently, not looking at me, and I pretend to focus on my plate. The pain sits inside me, but I don't show it—only occasionally catching his silhouette from the corner of my eye.
He doesn't speak to me again, as if an invisible wall has risen between us once more. He only gently hugs Mary, kisses the top of her head, and wishes her good night. I watch them with my heart in my throat—this warmth he can give… but not to me. Honestly, I want the same. Just one small gesture. A touch. A word. A kiss. Anything… I know I might not deserve it. But do feelings listen to reason? The desire is there, and it burns me from the inside.
After reading a story to my daughter and waiting until her breathing becomes steady and deep, we go to bed. I lie in the dark, staring out the window, as if it can give answers to all my doubts. I try to sleep, but my thoughts won't let go.
And suddenly, I feel someone creeping in, very quietly, almost imperceptibly, and lying down behind me, pressing against my back. His warmth immediately envelops me, and my heart thuds loudly. I stir, turning around, half-asleep and a little confused.
"It's me," Maxim whispers, his voice hoarse, as if all the unspoken feelings are stuck inside it.
"My night troublemaker?" I ask sleepily, pressing my cheek into the pillow still carrying the scent of my daughter.
"Only yours," he whispers, kissing my cheek just the way I want. Exactly as I have dreamed before sleep. His lips are warm and gentle, and his embrace firm and safe. I let myself relax, feeling him soothe me with this silence and closeness. We fall asleep together, as if the world has become right again, even if just for one night.
In the morning, I wake up happy. Not just rested, but truly fulfilled. We sleep together again. Or rather—the three of us. Me, Maxim, and our little joy. Everything feels so simple and real. The day begins beautifully, and my mood is at its peak. I feel like flying from happiness, laughing, dancing barefoot across the floor. I carefully get up, trying not to wake them, take the pre-packed things, and leave the bedroom.
I have to go to work. Dressed, and after giving my grandmother a goodbye kiss on the cheek, I leave the house with a light heart. The day is indeed good. As usual, I immerse myself in my work—familiar, calm, a little tiring, but comforting. Until he interrupts me.
Maxim.
He appears at school suddenly, like a thunderclap from a clear sky. I am not expecting him. Can't even imagine it. The day has been ordinary, each movement filled with monotonous fatigue—bucket, rag, smell of cleaning solution, empty hallways. I bend down to wring out a rag, and then… I feel someone approach from behind. A presence foreign, yet painfully familiar. His hand grabs my elbow sharply but not roughly—confidently, dominantly, as if the world has shifted all at once.
"What are you doing here?" I ask, unable to hide my surprise. My voice cracks slightly—whether from fatigue or how unexpectedly my heart has leapt in my chest. It won't freeze—only pounds somewhere beneath my ribs, frighteningly fast.
"That's a question I should be asking you," he cuts in, and his voice is full of rage. Real, biting. But not cold—more hurtful, jealous. As if he has been betrayed. His eyes burn, literally piercing me through. "My woman will not work as a cleaner."
Like a slap. Not with a hand—but with words. Sharp. Loud. Unexpected.
My body tenses—convulsively, abruptly, as if something inside has snapped. A wave of anger and hurt washes over me, pressing on my chest, making it hard to breathe. From indignation, from pain, from the sense that he has shattered everything I have worked for so long and desperately. As if he has erased everything I represent with a single glance, a single word, a single cold tone.
I don't like how he says it—there is not a hint of doubt or sympathy in his voice. Only icy certainty. Deafening, pressing. As if I have no right to choose. As if I am not myself, but merely someone else's appendage. His woman. His property. Like an old item forgotten on a shelf. Like a shadow stripped of its own will.
"I'm no longer yours," I blurt out foolishly, without thinking. The words shoot out like a bullet—spontaneous, sharp.
I don't even realize why I say it. Maybe I just want to protect myself. To push him to where it hurts. At least for a moment, make him feel the weight I carry every day. That burning emptiness that wakes with me in the mornings. That exhausted fatigue that hasn't left even after sleep.
At that moment, I don't think. I only feel. Only the pulse hammering in my ears, and the trembling in my hands.
I stand before him—small, tired, but unbroken. And he looks at me—with pain. With anger. With the very love that not even years of separation can extinguish.