We met during a time when the heart believes: once it lights up, it burns forever. I was studying at the art school in Nizhny Novgorod, and he—Vitya, a lanky guy from the neighboring district, always with a guitar slung over his shoulder and pockets full of poems scribbled on torn notebook pages. He waited for me by the entrance, pretending to casually pass by, strumming his guitar strings as if by accident.
«Katya, listen…» he murmured without lifting his eyes. «This is for you…»
I listened. His voice was off-key, and the poems seemed straight out of a ninth grader’s notebook. But there was something in him—fragile, hopelessly sincere—that made it impossible for me to turn away and simply say “no.”
After school, our paths diverged. I moved to Moscow, while he stayed in his hometown, Rostov. But the letters kept coming. Sometimes just a couple of lines: «Without you, even the sun seems dim,» and other times—a call at 3 AM: «Are you asleep, my dear?» He would visit, sleeping in train compartments just to spend a single day with me. And I waited.
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He came to me one winter, showing up in the early morning with a thermos and a first-aid kit—he had read somewhere that linden tea helps with colds. I stood in my pajamas, wrapped in a blanket, as he smirked, saying, «See? Without me, you’re helpless.»
I cried. From happiness.
Eventually, he became distant. Our conversations turned into mundane questions about shopping or being late. I tried—cooking his favorite dish, inviting my parents over, buying theater tickets—but he brushed it all off with a «Maybe later.»
One day, during dinner, he suddenly said, «Katya, enough. Let’s not talk about it anymore.»
Then Sergei appeared. Vitya’s business partner. We met at some banquet. He was courteous, well-read. Unlike Vitya, he knew the difference between Vrubel and Repin. «I hear you appreciate contemporary art,» he said, handing me a brochure from an exhibition.
At first, he invited me to the theater, then for tea, then to a concert. At first, it seemed innocent. But soon, it was happening more frequently. I decided to talk to my husband.
«Vitya, Sergei… it’s like he’s not just being polite,» I said.
