Tuesday comes. Tuesday, which I have never liked with all my heart. It always carries a sense of inevitability, something cold, something forced. As if it bears the weight of decisions, farewells, and expectations. Today, after lunch, we pack our things and go to Elena Dmitrievna's. There is a strange silence in the car—not heavy, but dense, like the quiet before a storm.
Leaving Mary with his mother, we finally close ourselves in the room and are alone. And it feels like breathing again after holding my breath for a long time, like a gulp of fresh air after a long run. Everything around seems to quiet down, giving way only to the two of us and our thirst for each other.
The time has come to fulfill the promise. And Maxim fulfills it completely. From lunch until late at night, we stay in bed, as if trying to make up for the minutes when circumstances keep us apart. Every gesture of his is full of fire; his touches are not just caresses—they are a vow that carries "I love you," "I wait for you," and "don't forget."
My beloved comes down for dinner himself—it is the only moment he leaves me. The rest of the time, he is by my side. He touches me with such passion, with such desire, as if a fire burns within both of us that knows no bounds. He caresses me, taking me to the heights of bliss, leaving no time to think. His lips, his hands, his breath—everything about him drives me mad, and I lose myself in this whirlwind of pleasure and love, like in a sweet dream from which I do not want to wake.
Maxim has never been like this before. Not to this extent. There has always been a fire in him, but now—it seems he has stopped restraining himself. As if he allows himself to be who he truly is beside me. And I love it madly. I can feel the boundaries disappearing, leaving only the truth of our bodies, the truth of our feelings. Nothing else.
I feel with my whole body—he doesn't want to leave either. His eyes, when he looks at me, are filled with the same pain as my soul. We are like two pieces of the same whole, which are about to be separated again. I understand that he does this only for the promise made to our mutual friend.
I know—Vi would not have taken him if he were in danger. So I trust. With my heart. And still… it is hard to let go. Because he is home, and home is about to leave again. And I have to stay. Composed, strong, smiling. For him. For us.
I fall asleep wearily on the bed in my beloved's arms. His warmth is like a reliable shield from the world; his steady breathing beside me is like gentle music, lulling my exhausted soul. His hand on my waist holds me like the most precious treasure, and all of it together rocks me like a baby, in the silence of the night, which feels endless and safe. It is one of those rare moments when I feel completely secure, as if the whole world has stopped, frozen to give us a chance to rest from the pain and worries accumulated over the day, perhaps over a lifetime.
I wake up alone. The emptiness beside me feels particularly sharp, like a cold wind cutting to the bone. The blanket is rumpled but cold—he has left long ago. The air is filled with the bitterness of loneliness. Wearing only my nightgown, shivering slightly in the morning chill, I slowly descend the stairs, each step heavy in my chest. Inside, anxiety has already begun to grow—like a snake quietly crawling through my veins. My heart tightens more and more with each step, as if afraid to hear the answer to a question I dare not ask. When I see Elena Dmitrievna, a familiar figure in the kitchen, I want to cling to her like an anchor, like the last support in this unstable world.
"Where is Max?" I ask, holding back my anxiety, but my voice still sounds too sharp, almost pleading. Desperation and the fear of losing him forever are evident in my words.
"Victor took him early this morning. They went to the market together," she replies calmly, but I catch a slight alertness in her voice, as if she understands that for me, this is not just information, but something far greater than words.
I silently return to my room. I have no strength to speak, no strength even to breathe. The world seems dull, as if all the colors of life have disappeared with him. Inside, emptiness, cold, and hopelessness spread.
Looking at the bed, I remember what happened here yesterday. All those feelings, words, glances—every moment filled with hope and pain. It is as if every fold in the sheet holds echoes of his touches, his presence, his love. I sit on the edge, lowering my eyes, and a heavy realization spreads slowly through my chest—it is not just emptiness, it is a wound that will not heal soon.
For the first time, I understand him. Not just accept—feel to the point of pain in my chest. That feeling he experienced when I left abruptly reveals itself before me in all its unmasked cruelty. Back then, it seemed I was doing the right thing. But now… everything is different, and this realization painfully burns my heart.
Yes, Maxim would not do that. He will return. In less than a day, he will be beside me again. That knowledge warms my soul like a soft blanket on a cold winter day. But he, my beloved, he thought he would never see me again. For him, it was not just a farewell—it is like death, as if part of him died with my departure.
Imagining him in that situation, I fully understand for the first time what he felt then. Alone. Lost. Blinded by pain, like in a thick fog, with no hope of rescue. The desire to be with me, even somewhere nearby—in the places where we have been together, in alleys, cafes, even just on the street, where I once laughed or cried. No wonder he started racing and fighting—it was his cry for help, his attempt to drown out the inner emptiness. I had mentioned this in passing once, not thinking it would affect so deeply.
Yes, when you fight, physical pain helps drown out the one inside. As if every hit, every bruise is an attempt to tear out even a drop of suffering, a spark of life, when it feels like everything is collapsing. Otherwise, one could go insane… or do foolish things. Foolish things… Of course, he wanted to die. I feel it so acutely, as if someone has squeezed my heart into a fist. After all, if I had thought I would never see my beloved again—wouldn't I have gone to the edge of a roof? Wouldn't it have called to me, like salvation from all this madness?
Maxim leaves today only briefly, with no ill intent. But that is enough for me to find myself in his world—a world without him. And he knows—I will understand. He hopes I will understand, not now, but when he punished me. But it turns out that I just need to be alone to understand, and this darkness envelops me, wraps around me like a thick fog.
How could I throw him into this dark pit of suffering? How could he forgive me after everything he endures because of me? How?
Love. This is the only answer I find. Only it can keep him from breaking. Only it holds him on the edge when I leave. Love for the one who hurts him. Love stronger than all mistakes and fear.
Could I forgive him if I were in his place? Most likely—not. Realizing this pierces me like a needle to the heart. I treat him terribly. I have no right to interfere in his life, only to leave him afterward, like a doll, a broken toy that can just be set aside. And yet, he is a living person. With feelings. With pain. With a soul I wound.
I reach into the suitcase, my trembling hands pulling out his clothes. I search for his T-shirt or shirt—one he has worn—to feel his scent—the scent of his body, the scent of his skin, the scent of comfort and safety. I need at least something to stay afloat in this ocean of grief.
Approaching the bed, I climb onto it, sobbing, hugging the shirt I found. I breathe it in like air, choking on tears, as if every molecule brings both comfort and pain at the same time. I do not leave the bed until Maxim returns. Even when Elena Dmitrievna tries to pull me out, saying something soft and soothing—I don't hear it. I don't want anything. Until he is here, I have nothing to look for in this world.
Yes, I act terribly. I leave Mary completely in Elena Dmitrievna's care. I know it. I understand. But inside me rages such deep depression, such heaviness and guilt, that I cannot control myself. I seem to dissolve into this grief, into this silence, waiting—until I hear again the steps of the one whose heart I once break.