The white tiles on the ceiling blurred in front of her eyes as if they had been washed away by water. The light was too harsh—like a spotlight shining directly in her face. Rita tried to move, but her body didn’t respond. Her eyelids felt incredibly heavy, like curtains made of lead. She blinked—once, twice, trying to focus her vision. The sounds came as if through a thick layer of water: dull, distorted. Somewhere nearby, a monitor beeped steadily, and for some reason, that sound was comforting.
How long had she been lying there? Minutes? Hours? Rita couldn’t say for sure—time had lost its clear boundaries, it had become fluid, pliable. She balanced between light and darkness, sometimes slipping into oblivion, sometimes returning to consciousness. And suddenly—a voice shattered the silence:
“She’s getting better. The doctor says—there’s improvement.”
It was Maxim, her husband. His voice sounded tired, broken. Rita wanted to call out to him, but her lips wouldn’t obey. She remained trapped inside herself, a silent observer of what was happening.
“I can’t do this anymore, Anya. Coming here every day and seeing her like this… motionless. It’s killing me.”
Anya? The name clicked in her memory. Maxim’s colleague from the architectural firm. A tall blonde with cold blue eyes, whom he sometimes brought to corporate events.
“I understand you,” the woman said gently. “But you shouldn’t feel guilty. The accident… no one expected it.”
The accident. The word struck her mind like an electric shock. Fragments of memories flashed before her eyes: the wet road, the screeching of brakes, the headlights of an oncoming car, the grinding of metal. And then—nothing. Darkness.
“The doctors say that even if she comes out of the coma, she might still be… different,” Maxim’s voice trembled. “There might be brain damage. She might not recognize me, not remember our life.”
“Look at me, Max,” Anya said softly but firmly. “You can’t wait forever. It’s been six months. It’s time to think about yourself too.”
Six months. The thought struck Rita painfully. Six months. Half a life. Time that passed without her.
“I know,” he sighed. “It just feels like betrayal.”
“You’re not betraying anyone,” Anya replied. “You’re just continuing to live. And that’s okay. Rita would understand.”
No!—Rita screamed inside her head. She wouldn’t understand! How can you plan a new life when I’m here, fighting for every breath?
But soon, her anger shifted to a bitter realization. Six months—a long time. For her, time had stopped, but for Maxim, it had gone on. And in that time, someone else had appeared.
“I’ve already found an apartment,” he said after a pause. “Not far from yours. It’s convenient, the area is quiet, good for…”
He didn’t finish, but Rita completed the thought herself: “For the children.” She and Maxim had always dreamed of two: Artem and Sofia. And now, he was making plans with someone else.
The door to the room opened, and a nurse’s voice was heard:
“Visiting hours are over, sorry.”
“Of course, we’re leaving now,” Maxim replied. “See you tomorrow, Rita. I love you.”
Love? How can you talk about love and, at the same time, dream of a new family with someone else? Anger flared inside again, but quickly faded. She heard footsteps, the closing door—and was left alone once more, alone with her silent consciousness and the beeping monitor.
At some point, Rita slipped back into the darkness. And when she woke, it was under the rays of sunlight streaming through the blinds. Morning? Day? Someone was moving around the room, making familiar rustling sounds.
“Good morning, Rita Andreevna!” the nurse cheerfully said. “It’s a beautiful day, spring has arrived. The lilacs are already blooming outside the window!”
The nurse was bustling around the IV, humming. Rita gathered all her strength to make some kind of sign. One finger barely twitched.
“Oh!” the woman gasped, noticing the movement. “You hear us?”
Rita focused and blinked once. Yes.
“Doctor! Quickly, come here! The patient has regained consciousness!”
The flurry of activity passed like a blur. The doctors were rushing around, asking questions, checking her reactions, shining a flashlight in her eyes.
“Amazing,” said the young doctor with a neat beard. “After six months in a coma… This is extremely rare. We’ll start rehabilitation.”
Rita caught every word: head trauma, multiple fractures, internal bleeding. They were literally piecing her together.
“Inform her husband, he should come,” Dr. Sokolov ordered.
Maxim arrived an hour later. His footsteps were heard from far off. He ran in, disheveled, with red eyes and traces of sleepless nights under his eyelids.
“Rita…” he exhaled, approaching the bed. “My God, you’ve come to…”
Carefully, like handling fragile glass, he took her hand. His face was exhausted, but there were tears of joy in his eyes.
“You hear me? Please, answer me…”
Rita blinked. Once. Yes.
His face lit up with hope. Tears rolled down his cheeks.
“Ritka… I thought I lost you forever…”
He pressed his forehead to her hand, crying openly. Rita felt something soften inside her. He was truly suffering. But that didn’t change everything she had heard earlier. His words about another woman still rang in her head.
When Maxim calmed down a little, he began speaking—quickly, incoherently, jumping from one thought to another. He spoke of how he came to her every day, whispered words of hope in her ear, prayed, even though he’d never been religious. How the doctors first gave hope, and then just shook their heads.
Rita listened. And blinked. Once. Yes. She heard. Everything.
But not a word about the other woman. Not a hint of the new apartment or dreams of a future with someone else.
Soon, Dr. Sokolov entered the room, studying the notes in the medical chart carefully.
“Great news,” he said, reviewing the results. “Recovery will take time, but there’s already progress. Rita Andreevna, do you hear me?”
She blinked once—yes.
“Good. Now I’ll ask you a few questions. One blink means ‘yes,’ two means ‘no.’ Do you remember what happened?”
Rita blinked twice. She only remembered fragments.
“It’s normal,” the doctor nodded. “After a brain injury, amnesia is common. Memories may return over time, or they may not. The important thing is your brain is active, you’re responding to speech. That’s a good sign.”
Turning to Maxim, the doctor added:
“Don’t overwhelm her. She needs rest. And you should inform her family—she has a good chance of recovery.”
“I already called her parents. They’re on their way, coming from Nizhny,” Maxim replied.
When the doctor left, her husband took her hand again.
“It’ll be okay, you’ll make it. We’ll make it. Together.”
“Together?” Rita thought. But she could only lie there and listen. Anya. The apartment. The children they had planned. He spoke about it yesterday. She heard it all.
“I need to make a couple of calls,” Maxim said. “One minute, I’m right here.”
The door was left slightly ajar. Rita strained to listen.
“Anya? Hi… I have news… Yes, she woke up. This morning… No, she’s not talking yet, but the doctors are optimistic… No, Anya, we’ve already discussed this. I can’t… Not now… Please, understand…”
With each word, the blood in her veins ran cold. So, it was all true. Anya wasn’t just a colleague, wasn’t just support. There was more than friendship between them.
Maxim returned with a tense smile.
“Alright, now I’ll stay with you all day.”
In his eyes, there was confusion, fear, maybe—guilt. He started talking about the weather, about the coming summer, about how everyone would be happy to have her back. But those words were empty, as if he was afraid of a real conversation.
The day dragged on slowly. Doctors came in, took measurements, checked reflexes. Nurses carried out procedures. Rita felt control gradually returning to her body: first her fingers, then her hands, and finally—her legs. By evening, she was able to slightly turn her head. Every movement was hard, but it felt like a victory.
Maxim stayed nearby, except for the moments when he went out to talk on the phone. Every time, she caught Anya’s name, their arguments, his pleas to wait. “Not now,” he repeated over and over.
By nightfall, Rita grew tired. Consciousness slipped away, her body demanded rest.
“Rest,” Maxim whispered, noticing her eyelids growing heavy. “I’m here. I’ll wait for you in the morning.”
She closed her eyes, sinking into silent darkness.
Morning brought new strength. Her head felt clearer, her movements more precise. Rita was able to move her arms more freely and even whispered her first words.
Maxim dozed in the chair, curled up uncomfortably, but never leaving her side. She watched him for a long time—the face she knew so well, but now it seemed unfamiliar.
“Water…” she whispered faintly.
Her husband suddenly woke up, jumping to his feet.
“You spoke?! You really spoke?!”
“Water…” she repeated, a bit louder.
He hurriedly poured the water, carefully bringing the glass to her lips. Rita took a few sips. An action that once required no effort had now become a small triumph.
«I’ll call the doctor!» he said, but Rita weakly shook her head.
«Wait…» Her hoarse voice was still far from its usual tone. «Who… Anya?»
Maxim’s face paled. His hands, holding the glass, trembled.
«What did you say? How did you know?»
«I heard. Yesterday… And before, too.»
«You heard everything?» he asked, unable to hide the pain in his voice. «All this time?»
«Not everything… Just fragments. But it was enough.»
A heavy silence hung between them. Outside, birds chirped, trays clinked somewhere in the corridor, but inside the room, the world was falling apart.
«I didn’t know you could hear us. If I had known… I would never have allowed myself this,» he whispered.
«Tell me everything,» Rita asked. «No hiding.»
Maxim took a deep breath.
«After the accident, you were in very serious condition. The doctors gave little hope. I didn’t leave your side for a month. Then, I started coming home sometimes. Anya helped me— with work, with food, with my mind. She was just there when it was unbearably hard for me.»
«You started seeing each other?»
«It just happened. I didn’t want to… I didn’t know what to do. Month after month—no changes, no hope. I felt like I was losing myself.»
«But not me,» Rita interjected. «You were building a new life. Without me.»
«I thought… I thought I had lost you forever,» his voice quivered. «I didn’t know how to go on. Anya became my support.»
«And now you don’t know who you love more.»
Maxim lowered his gaze.
«I love you, Rita. I always have. But these months have changed a lot. I… I’m confused.»
His honesty hurt, but Rita understood—he was telling the truth. Six months. Enough time for everything to change.
«I need time,» she said. «And so do you.»
«I’ll come every day. I’ll help you recover. We’ll figure everything out, little by little,» he promised.
Rita nodded. She had no strength for more conversation. Right now, what mattered most was one thing—getting back to life. After that, she would figure out who would be a part of this new chapter.
Weeks turned into a marathon of recovery. Each day brought a new victory: the first independent sip of water, the first steps with a walker, the first coherent sentence. Her body, drained from the coma, was slowly waking up. Her mind was returning too—though not immediately, but steadily. Only the memories of the accident remained blurred, like an old photograph in the rain.
But Rita didn’t rush time. She knew: the most important thing wasn’t what had been. It was what would come next.
That was why she decided to start anew. Not only with herself, but with Maxim. Perhaps with a new reality as well.
Maxim kept his word—he came every day. Sometimes for an hour, sometimes for the entire day. He helped Rita with her rehabilitation exercises, read books aloud, and shared news from the outside world. They talked about many things: movies, weather, the children of their friends. But never once did they mention Anya. That topic was off-limits, an invisible wall between them.
However, Rita knew: the connection with the other woman hadn’t been severed yet. Sometimes Maxim would step into the corridor, answering calls. She didn’t hear the words, but she saw his face when he returned—a mixture of anxiety and guilt that he tried unsuccessfully to hide.
One day, when Rita could already walk with a cane and the doctors started preparing her for discharge, a woman entered the room. A tall blonde with a cold gaze and her head held high. It was Anya.
For a long moment, they just stared at each other. Inside, Rita froze. She had replayed this encounter a thousand times in her mind, rehearsing what she would say. But now, looking at the woman who had taken a part of her husband’s life, she couldn’t find the words.
«Hello,» Anya finally broke the silence. «I… I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.»
«Why?» Rita asked, her voice remaining calm, though inside, everything was boiling.
Anya slowly stepped into the room, carefully closing the door behind her.
«I know almost everything about you,» she said quietly. «Maxim often spoke only of you. How you met at university. How you love orange juice in the mornings and can’t stand alarm clocks. How you laugh at silly TV shows and cry at commercials with animals…»
She paused for a moment, gathering strength.
«I never meant to tear anyone apart. It just happened. He was lonely, lost… And I…»
«Fell in love,» Rita finished for her.
«Yes,» Anya nodded. «And that’s why I decided to leave. From his life. From your life. It may sound pompous, but I want you to have a chance to be together again.»
Rita studied her carefully. Before her stood not an enemy, but a person who had also gone through her own struggles.
«You could have become my enemy,» she said. «And instead, you’re giving me my husband back.»
«I just realized I could never be her,» Anya softly replied. «He loves you. Not the way he loves me. It was a refuge, nothing more. So, I’m leaving.»
Rita stared at the closed door long after Anya had gone. The conversation unexpectedly brought relief. Now everything seemed clearer. The cards were on the table—no secrets, no unspoken words.
That same evening, Maxim came, a little tense, holding a bouquet of lilies—her favorite flowers.
«Anya was here today,» Rita said when he sat down next to her.
He flinched, his face reflecting surprise and anxiety.
«What? I didn’t know… What did she want?»
«She said she’s leaving. From your life. From our life.»
Maxim lowered his gaze, twirling the old watch in his hands— a new habit that had developed after the accident.
«We really talked yesterday. I told her I want to try to change everything. To come back to us. To you.»
Rita watched him, trying to understand if he was truly sure of his words.
«Is this really what you want? Forever?»
«Yes,» he raised his eyes, and there was a spark of desire to be heard. «I’m not saying it will be easy. We’ve changed. But I want to try. If you want that too.»
Rita took a deep breath. The future was foggy, full of questions. But one thing was certain—she was ready to fight for her life. And for whatever was left of their love.
«I do,» she said, extending her hand to him.
Maxim gently squeezed her palm and kissed her skin. In that gesture was a promise — of a clean slate, new beginnings, and hope.
A week later, Rita was discharged from the hospital. At the threshold, she stopped and looked back at the building that had been her home for the past months. She was overwhelmed with conflicting feelings — joy, fear, uncertainty. The outside world seemed too vast and intimidating.
«Ready?» Maxim asked, supporting her arm.
She nodded, gripping her cane. Every step was difficult, but she trusted the doctors — with time, it would get easier. Perhaps she would even be able to run again.
The taxi was waiting. The driver, a kindly man, helped Maxim settle her inside.
«Home?» he asked.
Rita hesitated. «Home.» The word no longer carried the same associations. She had left this place six months ago. Now, she returned a different person. And the house, perhaps, was no longer hers.
«Yes. Home,» she finally said, pushing away memories of the nights spent here without her.
The journey was short, but with every meter, her heart beat faster. The house stood unchanged, as if nothing had shifted. But Rita knew the truth — much had changed.
Maxim helped her up the porch steps. The key turned in the lock, and the door swung open. Inside, everything looked almost the same — the same wallpaper, the same furniture, photos on the walls. But the small details revealed change: books arranged differently, a new vase, Maxim’s belongings missing from the bedroom.
«I’ve prepared the room upstairs for you,» he said, helping her remove her coat. «But if you’d prefer, I can move things downstairs, so you don’t have to climb the stairs.»
«Your room,» Rita noted silently. Not «our.»
«I’ll manage,» she replied. «I need the exercise.»
Climbing the stairs was hard. Sweat rolled down her forehead, and her legs shook. But she didn’t allow herself to stop. She wanted to prove to herself that she could handle it. That she wasn’t broken.
The bedroom greeted her with silence. Cleanliness. Order. Too perfect. It was as if no one had lived here for a long time. Or had lived here cautiously, trying not to leave any traces.
«I changed the sheets, aired out the window,» Maxim explained. «If you need anything, I’ll be downstairs.»
She nodded as he left.
«Maxim,» she called. «Where will you sleep now?»
He paused in the doorway, a flicker of hesitation passing over his face.
«In the guest room. I thought you might need time. And space.»
It was the right choice. But that didn’t make it easier.
When the door closed behind him, Rita sat on the bed. And for the first time in a long while, she cried. Not from pain. But from the realization — she had lost not just six months. Perhaps she had lost her place in this house too.
By evening, she woke up. On the nightstand was a tray with food. Soup, toast, tea. And a note in familiar handwriting:
«I didn’t want to wake you. If you need anything, I’m in my office. M.»
Rita felt a sudden hunger. The soup was delicious. Maxim had learned to cook — another small change to which she would have to adjust.
Later, when she made her way to the bathroom, she looked at herself in the mirror. The face was unfamiliar — thinner, with dark circles, her hair cut short after the surgery. She gazed at her reflection and whispered:
«I’ll have to learn to live again. And with this self too.»
The days began to follow a steady routine: exercises, rest, medications, and rare but polite conversations with Maxim. He was caring but kept his distance, as if afraid to take the first step, afraid of making another mistake.
The daily care was provided by nurse Olga — a large woman with strong hands and a soft gaze.
«You’re doing well,» she said one day during exercises. «Many would have given up by now.»
«I don’t have a choice,» Rita replied. «I have to get back to life.»
«You won’t return to the normal life,» Olga said bluntly, unexpectedly touching Rita. «After everything that’s happened, everything will be different. Sometimes — even better.»
Rita paused. Perhaps this was the chance — not to return to the past, but to create a new future. Not the one they had planned, but still worthy.
Her words were bitter, but in them was a truth that Rita was slowly starting to accept. It was impossible to simply return to the old life, as if nothing had happened. Now, she had to build a new one — from the fragments of the past, through the pain and experience, relying on what remained.
On the tenth day after her discharge, Rita decided to go down to the garden. It was her favorite place — a small, cozy corner where roses and lavender grew. Maxim helped her reach the wooden bench, and after wishing her some time alone with nature, he went back inside.
It was a warm spring day. The lilacs, which the nurse had mentioned, were indeed blooming — lush clusters of purple flowers filled the air with a sweet scent. The rose bushes also had their first buds. To Rita’s surprise, the garden was in excellent condition — it was clearly being cared for.
«I tried to keep everything the way you liked it,» Maxim said, coming outside with two cups of tea. «Though, I’m afraid I’m not as skilled a gardener as you.»
He sat beside her, handing her a cup. They sat in silence, watching as the sun filtered through the leaves, playing with light and shadow.
«It’s strange,» Rita broke the silence. «Everything is so familiar, yet it feels so foreign.»
Maxim nodded, as if he understood every word without explanation.
«You know what’s the hardest?» she continued. «Not the recovery, not the pain… But the feeling that I woke up in a strange world, which looks like mine on the outside, but is completely different inside.»
«You’ll find your place,» he said gently. «It just takes time. For both of us.»
Rita looked at him closely — for the first time in these days. She noticed new wrinkles around his eyes, a silver strand at his temple that had appeared over the past six months. He had changed too. Not just on the outside.
«Do you… miss her?» she asked, surprisingly to herself.
Maxim didn’t look away. And didn’t hide the truth.
«Sometimes,» he answered honestly. «I don’t want to hurt you, but yes — she was important to me. She helped me get through the darkest days.»
«Did you love her?»
«Not the way I love you,» he paused, choosing his words. «What I felt for Ana was more gratitude, support, even passion. But not the bond we share. You’re part of my soul, Rita. You always have been. And you always will be.»
There was no lie, no accusation in his eyes — only honesty and pain. And in that moment, Rita felt something warm stir in her chest. Not forgiveness — not yet. But the first step toward it.
«I’m not sure we can make everything the way it was,» she said, studying her hands. «We’ve changed. Both of us.»
«Maybe we don’t need to bring back the past?» Maxim said thoughtfully. «Maybe we should start something new. Together.»
He carefully placed his hand over hers. It wasn’t a gesture of care or help — it was a gesture of wanting to be close. The first one in all this time.
«I want to try,» Rita whispered, not pulling her hand away.
That evening, Maxim made dinner — simple but cozy. They ate on the terrace, watching the sunset, talking about books, the weather, and the music they both liked. Not a word about pain, the past, or betrayal. Just two people trying to become close again.
When Maxim helped her up the stairs, she suddenly stopped halfway up.
«I’ve been thinking…» she began uncertainly. «Maybe you don’t have to sleep in the guest room? I mean… just be close. In the same room. Like before.»
Maxim froze. His face became serious, but there was a flicker of hope in his eyes.
«Are you sure? I don’t want to rush you.»
«I’m not saying that,» Rita shook her head. «Just let’s start small. With something simple. Just sleeping near each other. No hurry.»
He nodded, and in his gaze was a flicker of gratitude.
That night, they lay in one bed, almost not touching each other. But just the awareness of the other’s presence brought a strange sense of calm. Before sleep, Rita thought: healing begins with small things — not just the body, but the soul as well.
In the morning, she woke up, and their hands were intertwined. As if, even in sleep, they had found their way back to each other.
With the arrival of summer, Rita’s strength returned more quickly. She could walk without a cane, though she still got tired after being on her feet for too long. Slowly, but surely, she rejoined household tasks, and in the garden, she revived the plants that became a kind of therapy for her.
Maxim now worked from home to be close. Sometimes, Rita caught his gaze — long, thoughtful, with a slight shadow of sadness. She knew he was thinking about the past. About what was no longer there. About who he had become.
Ana never appeared again. Only one postcard — no signature, just a simple wish for good health. But Rita understood — it was her last gesture, a farewell step toward the exit.
The intimacy between her and Maxim was slowly restored. First, tentative touches, then hugs, and later — kisses. Like in youth, when everything happens for the first time. Their first night after the accident was especially delicate — shy but real.
«You’re so beautiful,» he whispered, looking at her in the moonlight filtering through the curtains.
Rita knew that wasn’t entirely true. Her body bore the marks of the trauma, scars that wouldn’t disappear. But in his eyes, she saw not the perfect woman from the past — but the one he loved now, the real, living, surviving her.
In autumn, they began taking short walks. The park nearby became their place of strength. One day, sitting on a bench by the pond, Rita suddenly said:
«I want to go there. To the place of the accident.»
Maxim frowned.
«Why? You don’t need to. It won’t bring you anything good.»
«I need it,» she said firmly. «To close this chapter. To move on.»
After a long silence, he nodded.
The next day, they took a taxi — Maxim still didn’t dare drive. The site of the accident turned out to be so ordinary — a regular city intersection, no different from the others. No signs, no traces of tragedy. Just the road, the traffic light, and indifferent passersby.
«Here,» Maxim said, squeezing her hand. «You crossed here. The driver was drunk. He didn’t notice the red light.»
Rita closed her eyes. The memory still held only emptiness. But the fear that had once gripped her from within didn’t return.
«What if you had been there? What if you had gone with me?» she asked quietly.
«Maybe I would have saved you. Or we both…,» his voice trembled.
«The past can’t be changed,» Rita said softly. «We can only accept it and move forward.»
She looked at the intersection and suddenly felt peace. Not joy, not oblivion — just acceptance.
«Let’s go home,» she said. «We still have so much ahead.»
On the way back, Rita remembered the nurse’s words: «Normal life will never be the same.» Maybe that’s true. But perhaps real happiness isn’t about perfection — it’s about the ability to love, despite the scars. To live, despite the loss. To believe, despite betrayal.
When the taxi stopped at the house, she looked at Maxim. He was still holding her hand. And in his eyes, she saw the same thing she saw in herself — cautious hope. Quiet, but alive.
«Home,» she repeated.
And this time, the word sounded like a beginning, not an end.
