I am finally released from the endless interrogations and taken to a cell. The irony of fate — he is already there, the object of all my rage, pain, and disappointment. Max looks at me but says nothing. He just moves aside, making space next to him.
It's cold here, unpleasant to the point of shivering. Metal, concrete, the scent of strangers — everything makes me feel disgusted. And when he notices that I'm shaking, he silently takes off his jacket and drapes it over my shoulders. No words. No excuses. It's not a gesture of remorse — more like a silent way to somehow make amends.
"I called a friend… We'll be released soon," he says quietly, controlled, as if every word costs him effort.
"Pray it happens," I grit through my teeth, "or I'll end up in prison not for illegal racing, but for killing you."
He nods without arguing. Apparently, he understands that every word I say now is truth, edged with the brink. We sit in silence, not looking at each other. I just try to breathe, not to break down, not to cry from exhaustion. The silence between us is unbearable, stretched tight like wire ready to snap.
Twenty minutes later, the door opens, and a man in uniform appears.
"You're free to go," he says dryly, as if stating a fact rather than giving a verdict.
I stand up, not fully believing that it's real. Max straightens beside me, his figure calm and unshaken. He probably expected this.
"I told you I'd get us out," he says with a faint smile, as if hoping it might soften the moment. But there's a hint of self-satisfaction in his voice that only adds bitterness. It's like he's certain I should forgive him because he saved us.
That's the last straw. All the anger, all the pain, everything I've endured tonight bursts out. I spin around and slap him hard — a sharp, ringing slap, with all the pain built up in every beat of my heart since we were caught. My hand burns, but the feeling I have for him burns far more.
Max just shakes his head, as if it's predictable. He is not surprised. Touching his cheek, he calmly says,
"All right. I deserved that."
No excuses. No words in reply. It's worse than if he had argued. It's an acknowledgment of guilt, but without defense. He just stands there, silent, taking everything I feel. He is ready to take the blow because he knows I can't stay silent any longer. And that silence is harsher than any words. He doesn't even try to justify himself, doesn't try to explain why everything happened this way. Maybe because he doesn't know how to explain what's happening between us.
I can't stay near him anymore. I run outside, as if escaping. The cold air stings my face, but it feels more alive than anything inside the station. I walk without looking back. I need to leave — him, myself, everything that just shattered my world.
"I'll order a taxi now and we'll go home," he says, following me into the cold night air, thick with tension and unsaid words.
"Who did you call? Your buddy, Tim? And what did you promise him in exchange for getting us out?" I turn to face him, and we stand a meter apart.
"No, I called David. He's a prosecutor. We met two years ago, and it's not the first time he gets me out."
"You're kidding! And how often do you end up in places like this?" My words spill out like shards of broken glass, barely recognizing myself.
"Today is the seventh time already," he says calmly, almost indifferently, as if he's talking about grocery shopping.
I freeze, as if the ground is ripped from under me. My heart tightens, and one thought pounds in my head: what has happened to him? It's hard to believe that the gentle, attentive, almost fragile guy I once knew has turned into… no, not just a troublemaker. That word is too simple, too shallow. He has become a Rebel Boy — with a capital R. Real. He isn't just drawn to darkness — he absorbs it, lives in it, breathes it, as if it's the only way to survive. He no longer hides his shadow — he has made it part of himself. It's in his gaze, in his way of speaking, in his calm, almost predatory confidence. And it's terrifying. And painful.
"And why, I wonder?"
"Lots of things. And clearly, you don't need to know," he looks away, and for a fraction of a second, I see something in his eyes beyond mere fatigue. There's pain — dull, old, carefully hidden behind roughness and indifference. It looks at me silently, begging me not to go further. But it's too late.
"Really? And what else do I not need to know? Tell me — why were you brought to the station?"
My nerves are on edge today. It feels like any small thing could be the last straw, the final push to completely break. My temples pound, my heart races wildly, and everything inside burns — from anxiety, from anger, from hopelessness.
"Attempted suicide. Fights. And once — for racing."
The world freezes for a second. His words echo down the street like a gunshot. Everything around me seems to vanish: light, noise, even my own breath disappears between moments. I stand paralyzed, feeling the cold seep under my skin, spreading through my veins.
Attempted suicide. Him? The one I loved? The one who seemed unshakable, strong, able to handle anything? A lump sticks in my throat, so heavy it feels like I can't speak another word. Pain spreads in my chest — scorching, agonizing. How? Why? Could my leaving really have broken him this badly?
I had no idea that behind his mask of indifference, there was such darkness all this time. I left, thinking it would be better — for both of us. And he, meanwhile, was crumbling inside, alone with himself. His soul cracked like thin glass under pressure, and no one noticed — not even me.
I had no idea how destructive the consequences of my leaving could be. At the time, I thought everything was under control, that he was strong enough to cope… I was sure — my presence wasn't so important to him that it could break him. But I was wrong. Bitterly and painfully.
And it's not just about that. Deep down, I still hope he isn't capable of such a desperate act. No matter what happens, he will hold on. And now I understand: it is me, my leaving, my silence that becomes the final straw. The thought of it presses on my chest, robs me of peace, comes back every night.
What else don't I know? What happens while I'm not there? What scars remain on his soul? What shadows linger behind his brief answers? And do I even have the right to demand explanations now?
"Taxi's here. Let's go, we'll pick up Mary and head home," his voice pulls me out of my stupor.
I get into the car silently, my heart beating dull and heavy. We drive in silence, and only the rare flicker of lights outside gently reminds me that the world is still moving, that somewhere out there, ordinary life continues—foreign, distant, as if not mine.
At Grandpa Vi's house, the host himself meets us. He rushes to us, not hiding his emotions, and hugs us tightly, pressing us to himself as if he wants to make sure we are real, alive. His embrace carries everything: fear, love, sleepless nights gone by, and restrained tears. He is trembling—whether from joy or the stress he has endured, I don't know—but that touch feels the warmest of the entire evening. As if, in that moment, the world gathers itself back together piece by piece.
"I'm glad you're both safe. David called me, he told me everything. But Vera—not a word. She doesn't know anything," I nod, respecting his request.
"I'll take the little one to the car," Maxim whispers in my ear. I don't answer. Too much is raging inside me.
"Vi, I want to talk to you."
"Yes, Katrinka," there is concern and warmth in his voice. We step aside into a room where the soft light of the lamp creates a sense of coziness and trust.
"What's the story with Max's suicide attempts?"
I need to know the truth. I can't live any longer in ignorance, tormented by questions that weigh heavier and heavier on me. My heart clenches with fear and worry. How could I not notice that something so terrible and painful is happening to him? And what if I could change everything, if only I were there? These thoughts are like sharp needles, constantly tormenting my mind.
I feel like a traitor. How could I be so blind? How am I supposed to know that my leaving became such a heavy blow for him? Why don't I see that his despair grows like a snowball until it becomes impossible to stop? The words "suicide attempts" sound like a verdict, a terrible sentence for what happens, and I am afraid to face the truth.
What's the story with Max? I have to know everything, even if it hurts—I can't continue living without knowing what really happens.
"He told you?" Vi lowers his eyes.
"Yes, but not everything. I want to hear it all from you."
"The first year after you left was hell for him. He tried to hold on with all his might, but often he couldn't. Then he began to break down—alcohol, and as a result, he went on binges. I saved him more than once from this, but I couldn't always be there with him. Once Max tried to jump from the roof of the dormitory. Dima called the authorities in time, and they pulled him down and took him to the station. That's actually where, if you don't know, he met David."
"Why did he do it?" I try not to cry, my voice betraying me with a tremble.
"From longing, Katrinka, that's how he explained it to me. He couldn't bear the separation. You were everything to him. Max missed you so much that he couldn't endure it anymore. And when you left, he didn't know how to live on. In an attempt to end that pain, he tried to do it."
"When did he stop? He doesn't do this anymore?" I barely held back tears as the words escaped my lips.
I fear that Max continues to seek an escape in this nightmare that won't let him rest, even after I return. My heart clenches with fear, and a restless anxiety spreads through my chest, as if it won't leave me for a minute. How can I not realize that he is in such a bad state?
Thoughts whirl in my mind like crazy, and I can't find peace. If he continues like this, if he tortures himself again, how am I supposed to live with it? Every step he takes, every breath he draws—I am ready to control everything just to make it easier for him. But I don't know what is happening, and that is the scariest part.
Max can't continue. It is impossible. I can't believe he will end up on that dark path again, from which he might never return. I am also afraid I won't be able to pull him out of that world, like he has done with me in the past.
"Don't worry. It's been more than two years, it's in the past," Vi takes my hand, and for the first time all day, I feel a tiny sense of peace.
I exhale. If something had happened back then… I would never forgive myself.
"He loves you. Very much. And all this time, all he dreams of is seeing you again."
"I love him too," I admit, as if realizing it all over again.
We leave the room. There is still a dull lump in my chest, like the lingering echo of all the words, tears, and tension that have accumulated during the day like a leaden weight. I say goodbye to Vi and Vera—briefly, with a weak smile, not even knowing what I want to convey with that look. Gratitude? Exhaustion? Emptiness?
I head to the car. The cold air slightly invigorates me but can't clear the fog in my head. Maxim is already behind the wheel, motionless, as if frozen in his thoughts. In the back, wrapped in a blanket, Mary sleeps peacefully—her breathing even, almost silent, and there is something touching, almost painfully innocent, in it.
"Where did the car come from?" I ask, sitting beside him, slightly closing my eyes from fatigue.
"I asked some friends to bring it," he replies quietly, not looking at me.
"I see… Let's go. I'm tired. Today is too hard," I whisper, feeling a soreness inside, not in my body but in my soul. The fatigue isn't physical. It is in my thoughts, in my heart, in the endless tension that keeps me on edge all day.
When we arrive home, I don't speak or start any discussions again. I just take off my shoes, drop my clothes, and lie down in bed. Maxim lies down beside me, cautiously, as if afraid to scare away the fragile moment of peace. We press silently against each other, and the silence is enough. No words are needed. Only the warmth of our bodies, our breathing, and the strange sensation that all the worst things are behind us.
In the morning, I wake from a gentle movement beside me. Half-aware, I turn, still not ready to leave the safe darkness of sleep.
"Sleep, my dear. I'll be back after lunch," his voice is warm, like a ray of sunlight through the curtains. He kisses me on the cheek—gently, with care—and I, murmuring in response, drift back to doze, this time without anxiety.
We still have a lot to go through before we return to our previous relationship. Too much. There are too many unhealed wounds, unspoken words, fears. But for the first time in a long while—for the first time truly—I believe: we have a chance. Not perfect, not easy, but real. And in that is hope.