Katya, let’s talk.”
The voice she’d hoped never to hear this close again yanked her out of pleasant thoughts of a hot bath and a new series. It surfaced from behind a massive concrete column of the office complex like a predator from ambush. The evening air—cool, smelling of exhaust and wet asphalt—suddenly felt stale and cramped. Katya groaned inwardly, sensing how the pleasant fatigue of a productive day was being replaced by a dull, long-cured irritation. She stopped not because she wanted to, but because he stepped right into her path, blocking the way to the sidewalk that promised escape.
Misha. The same as ever, only more gaunt, with a carefully rehearsed expression of universal sorrow on his face. The beaten-dog look that used to work flawlessly—making her feel guilty—now sparked only cold, analytical curiosity. She looked at him the way an entomologist looks at a particularly unpleasant insect.
“—Misha, we’ve discussed everything,” she said evenly, without the slightest hint of emotion. It was the voice of someone closing out a boring work task. “I have nothing to say to you.”
“Please, Katyusha. Just five minutes,” he took a step closer, invading her personal space. He smelled of stale clothes and cheap cigarettes. “I can’t live without you. I realized everything. I understand now.”
Instinctively she stepped back, restoring distance. The performance was nauseatingly familiar. He’d staged it three times already in the two months since they’d broken up.
“Too late to realize anything. I’m in a new relationship.”
That line wasn’t so much the truth as it was the most effective weapon. She saw his face warp for a split second. The grieving Pierrot mask slipped, and beneath it flashed angry, wounded pride. He winced as if with toothache—then caught himself. The actor returned to the stage. He sighed tragically, drooped his shoulders, and switched tactics so fast it was almost funny.
“I understand,” he said with dramatic breathiness. “Not for me. I’m happy for you, honestly. It’s just… my sister, Lenka—you remember her?”
Katya stayed silent, watching the show. Of course she remembered Lenka: a twenty-year-old with a permanently bored expression who believed the whole world owed her something—and that Katya’s apartment was an annex of a student dorm where you could crash for free after yet another party.
“She’s got nowhere to live right now,” Misha went on, gaining momentum. His voice took on pleading, almost paternal notes. “They’re kicking her out of the dorm, some paperwork issues—you know how it is. Basically, it’s complicated. Could she stay with you for a couple of weeks? Huh? You live alone, your place is big. She just needs a corner, she’s quiet, she won’t get in the way.”
And in that exact moment, the veil finally fell away. This wasn’t an ex with a broken heart. In front of her stood a petty, calculating user who, after failing with one tool—pity—immediately pulled out another, cruder one from his pocket. He didn’t even try to hide that his sister was just a pretext, a Trojan horse to snake his family’s tentacles back into her life, her apartment, her resources.
Katya suddenly laughed—not happily and not hysterically. It was a cold, angry laugh that cut the air sharper than the screech of brakes. Misha froze mid-sentence, and his carefully arranged mournful grimace began to slide off his face.
“Misha, are you serious?” she asked after she stopped laughing, staring straight into his eyes. “Did you really think that would work?”
He blinked in confusion, not understanding what had gone wrong in his flawless plan.
“Listen, and listen carefully, because I won’t repeat myself,” she lowered her voice, and it only made it firmer and meaner. “My apartment is not a transit point for your family. Your sister and her problems are none of my concern. Not one bit. Same as you. Forget my address, my phone number, and the way to this building.”
She didn’t wait for an answer. She simply walked around him the way you walk around a nasty puddle on the asphalt and headed toward the bus stop with quick, confident steps. She felt his gaze on her back—confused, angry, humiliated. She didn’t care. She walked without looking back, dissolving into the hum of the big city and anticipating the silence of her apartment—silence in which there would never again be room for him or his endless relatives.
The silence in her apartment was almost tangible. It smelled of freshly brewed coffee, cleanliness, and something faintly floral from shower gel. Changed into a soft home T-shirt and shorts, Katya curled up in an armchair with her legs tucked under her. A large mug sat on the table beside her, thin steam rising from it. This was her refuge, her fortress—won and arranged solely for herself. Everything here had its place; every cushion knew its purpose. There was no room for someone else’s mess, someone else’s problems, and certainly not someone else’s relatives. She took a sip and closed her eyes with pleasure—until a short, insistent buzz of the doorbell sliced through the perfect quiet like a scalpel.
She froze, listening. A courier? A neighbor? The bell rang again—longer, more demanding. With a nasty premonition tightening inside her, Katya set down the mug and went to the door. She looked through the peephole, and her blood ran cold. Behind the foggy glass stood Misha. And behind him, like part of an ominous still life, loomed his sister Lena. Beside her on the dirty stairwell floor towered a huge, battered wheeled suitcase, wrapped with duct tape in one spot. This wasn’t a probe anymore. This was a full-scale landing operation.
For a second Katya pressed her forehead to the cold door. She knew that if she didn’t open it, they wouldn’t leave. They’d start ringing neighbors, creating an awkward scene that she would end up having to untangle. Taking a deep breath, she turned the key and opened the door only wide enough for her body to block the entrance.
“Katya, come on, you won’t let us in?” Misha tried to smile, but it came out pathetic and fake. He made a slight shoulder movement, intending to squeeze past her.
Lena behind him didn’t pretend to be embarrassed or desperate. She peered over Katya’s shoulder with open curiosity, her gaze appraising the hallway as if deciding where it would be best to park her suitcase.
“I thought we cleared everything up half an hour ago,” Katya’s voice was level and icy. Inside her, something boiled with cold fury, but outwardly she was perfectly calm. “The answer is no.”
“Come on, you’ve got to understand, we have nowhere to go!” Misha whined, raising his voice so possible witnesses behind neighboring doors could hear. “What, you’ll leave her on the street? Have her sleep at the train station? Do you have any conscience at all?”
He pressed the most primitive levers, trying to paint her as a heartless bitch. But he was about two years late. All her stock of conscience and compassion for his family had been drained to the bottom. She shifted her gaze from his face to his sister’s bored face, then to their bulky luggage. They hadn’t come to ask. They’d come to present her with a fact. Move in.
That was the moment the dam of her patience collapsed. She stepped forward, forcing Misha to step back, and her calm tone turned into metal ringing with contempt.
“No one from your family—and you too—will live in my home ever again, Misha! We broke up! Broke up! Understand that! So stop pressing on pity and trying to dump your sister on me!”
She said it loudly, clearly, articulating every word. She wasn’t screaming, but her voice filled the entire stairwell. Misha jerked as if struck. For the first time Lena’s expression changed—her usual boredom shifted into dislike. It seemed they hadn’t expected such a direct, public refusal.
“Pick up your things,” Katya added quieter, but no less firm, sweeping both of them with a heavy look, “and get away from my door.”
Without waiting for their reaction, she stepped back into her apartment and smoothly—without slamming—closed the door. She turned the key twice. The clicks sounded like final periods in a letter long written but only now finally sent. She leaned her back against the door, breathing hard. Outside it was quiet. The siege had failed—at least for today.
The lock turned twice became a sound barrier separating her world from theirs. Katya stood with her back to the door for another minute, listening. Silence. No yelling, no outraged shrieks, no attempts to ring again. They had simply left. She exhaled as the tension that had coiled her muscles like a steel spring began to loosen. She returned to the room, picked up the now-cooling mug of coffee from the coffee table, and carried it to the kitchen. Not a single dirty plate in the sink. The apartment was in perfect order—her order.
She had almost regained the calm she’d had before their visit when her phone vibrated on the countertop—an annoying, insistent buzz. The screen showed a name she’d never deleted only out of lazy inertia: “Svetlana Ivanovna.” Misha’s mother. Heavy artillery. Katya stared at the letters on the screen and felt something cold and sharp inside her settle into place for good. She swiped and brought the phone to her ear without saying a word.
“Katyenka, dear, hello,” came the sugary-sweet, oily voice in the receiver—the tone used with unreasonable children or fussy patients. “You’re not busy, are you? I hope I’m not distracting you from your new… young man?”
The blow landed with the very first line—a thin, poisonous jab wrapped in fake concern. Katya stayed silent.
“Mishenka told me everything,” Svetlana Ivanovna continued, not waiting for an answer, her voice dripping with counterfeit sympathy. “Poor boy, he’s so upset. And Lenochka… Katyenka, I don’t understand what happened. You have such a kind heart. How could you throw a girl out onto the street? She’s all alone in a strange city—she needs help! We always considered you part of our family…”
As Katya listened to this monologue, images from the past flashed before her eyes: Svetlana Ivanovna and her husband arriving “to visit” for the weekend, in reality using Katya’s place like a free downtown dacha, leaving behind a mountain of dirty dishes and the stubborn smell of someone else’s perfume. Katya rushing to the train station in the middle of the night to pick up Lena because she’d “mixed up the time” and didn’t want to pay for a taxi. Misha—her son—sprawled on Katya’s couch for weeks because he was “finding himself,” while Katya wore herself out working two jobs. Part of the family. Yes—she had been part of it. A functional, useful part. Like a dishwasher or a car.
“Svetlana Ivanovna,” Katya cut through the syrup, her voice so calm it sounded almost ominous.
“Yes, dear?” surprise slipped into the woman’s voice.
“Let me remind you of something. The last time you came to me for the May holidays, you said Misha needed help with his coursework and asked me to ‘just take a look.’ I spent three nights on it, completely rewriting sixty pages for your son. Did you say thank you? No. You said I ironed your blouses badly.”
A stunned silence hung on the line.
“And remember how you asked me to pick up your parcel of seedlings because it was inconvenient for you to go? And after a twelve-hour workday, I hauled two heavy boxes of soil up to the fifth floor. You didn’t call to thank me—you called to scold me for not watering your tomatoes.”
“Katya, those are little things, domestic moments…” Svetlana Ivanovna mumbled, confused; the oily tone began to crack.
“They’re not little things. That’s your life. Your whole family is one giant ‘domestic moment’ I serviced for three years straight. Your son isn’t a poor boy—he’s a thirty-year-old infantile product of your parenting, incapable of taking responsibility even for his own plate in the sink. And his sister is the same kind of parasite. You didn’t raise children—you raised consumers. So here it is: shop’s closed. The service is no longer provided.”
Katya paused, letting her words sink into the listener’s mind. Through the line she heard ragged, outraged breathing.
“Don’t call me again. Ever. And tell the rest of your relatives the same.”
She didn’t wait for the reply, which would surely have been accusations and curses. She simply pressed the red end-call button. Then, with cold, decisive calm, she opened her contacts, found “Svetlana Ivanovna,” and tapped “Block.” The phone chirped briefly, confirming the action. The sound was sweeter to her than any music.
She managed to brew herself tea—real loose-leaf, with bergamot. The tart citrus aroma filled the kitchen, chasing away the last traces of unpleasant residue. She sat at the table, slowly turning pages of a book, when there was a knock at the door. Not the bell—knocking: three short, authoritative raps with knuckles. It was much worse than the doorbell. A bell could be anonymous; this knock carried certainty—the certainty of people who believed they had a right to come in.
Katya closed the book slowly, marking the page. She didn’t hurry. She already knew what she’d see through the peephole. Her intuition didn’t fail her. Distorted by the lens, the entire family stood there as if in a formal portrait. Svetlana Ivanovna at the center, her face frozen in a mask of offended virtue. To her left, Misha—hunched, wearing the sulky expression of a teenager forced to apologize. To her right, Lena with arms crossed, the same unclouded boredom and contempt for everything happening. They weren’t making noise or banging on the door. Their wordless, motionless presence on her threshold was an act of extreme psychological pressure—a final assault.
Katya knew they wouldn’t leave. She could call the police, but that would mean letting even more strangers into her life—reports, explanations, paperwork. She chose another way: end it here and now, once and for all. She took a deep breath, turned both keys, and opened the door.
They stood so close she had to step back to avoid brushing against them. For a moment there was silence. They expected her to speak—to make excuses, to scream, to cry. She stayed quiet, looking at their faces with coldness.
“We came to talk,” Svetlana Ivanovna broke the silence first. Her voice had none of the earlier sweetness; steel rang in it. “You behaved inappropriately, Katerina.”
“You can’t do this to us,” Misha immediately echoed, his voice full of rehearsed offense. “It’s inhuman.”
“So where am I supposed to go now?” Lena added lazily, not even looking at Katya, instead studying the stairwell ceiling.
They spoke over one another, weaving a thick, sticky chorus of reproaches, demands, and accusations. It felt like a badly rehearsed play in which each actor knew only their line and delivered it without listening to anyone else. Katya let them talk. She didn’t interrupt, didn’t add a word. She just watched. Her gaze moved slowly from face to face, and under that gaze their fervor gradually drained away. They fell silent, waiting for her reaction.
“I heard you,” Katya said so quietly they had to strain to catch it. “Now you listen to me.”
She looked straight into Svetlana Ivanovna’s eyes.
“You, Svetlana Ivanovna, spent your whole life raising people who are convenient for you. Not independent personalities, but extensions that serve your idea of how the world should be. You raised a son who at thirty can’t rent himself an apartment, and a daughter who thinks everyone owes her something just because she exists. Your problem is that your small cozy world ends at my apartment door.”
Then she shifted her gaze to Misha. His face flushed dark red.
“And you… you’re not even a loser, Misha. A loser at least tries. You’re an eternal child looking for a skirt to hide behind. First it was your mom, then it was me. You weren’t looking for love—you were looking for a free hotel with full board and built-in personal therapist. You thought if you were pathetic enough, I’d keep saving you forever. But saving a drowning man who drags you down with him isn’t kindness—it’s suicide. I choose life. Mine.”
And finally her gaze landed on Lena, who was openly curling her lips in a smirk.
“And I won’t say anything to you at all. You’re just a reflection. An empty space waiting for someone to fill it with food, money, and shelter. Find another donor. My blood is over for you.”
“How dare you!” Svetlana Ivanovna shrieked, her face twisting with rage. “Ungrateful! We came to you with all our hearts!”
“Katya, I loved you…” Misha drew out pitifully, stepping forward.
Katya lifted a hand to stop him.
“You were never interested in what I want. You came into my home and used everything in it—my food, my time, my energy, my nerves. You took and took and took, giving nothing back. And you sincerely believe that’s normal. It’s not. And today—it ends.”
She took a step back deeper into her apartment, her fortress. Her hand rested on the door. She looked at three bewildered, angry, incomprehending faces and, for the first time in many years, felt neither guilt nor pity—only emptiness and lightness.
“There’s nothing more to talk about. Goodbye.”
And she slowly, without slamming, closed the door in their faces. The first lock clicked, then the second. From behind the door came Svetlana Ivanovna’s outraged cry, then Misha’s muffled muttering. But Katya no longer listened. She pressed her forehead to the cool wood and closed her eyes.
The silence that followed was different. Not fragile like glass, but dense and warm like a blanket. It was no longer the tense silence of waiting—it was the silence of completion. Katya stepped away from the door and went to the kitchen. Her tea was still hot. She sat at the table, wrapped her hands around the warm cup, and took a sip. The bergamot aroma seemed to her the most beautiful smell in the world. She was alone in her apartment—but for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel lonely. She felt free…
