Yulia, remember this, please… you have to be careful,” her mother wasn’t just speaking. She was planting that feeling inside her, as if she already knew: it would hurt.
Yulia didn’t argue. Not because she agreed. She just didn’t want to. She had no strength to discuss anything. The door slammed; she paused for a second in the half-shadow of the entryway—as if someone’s shadow had passed right through her. Everything went strangely quiet. Like in those films where the sound disappears for a moment, and you’re left face to face with emptiness.
Sometimes, in the moment before a storm, the sky seems to take a breath. And that breath is the scariest part.
She walked home on foot. It was cool, the wind hit her face with the smell of October. Leaves, damp earth, and something else… something you can’t describe. And can’t forget.
There was no desire to hurry home. And no reason to. No one was waiting. No one asked. Formally—she was married. But how often does that word hide empty plates set for two, silence over dinner, and nights spent back to back?
Once, it was different…
When a woman falls in love, she doesn’t tally points and paychecks. She hears a voice. Sees eyes. Senses a scent. And if someone says, “He’s not right for you,” she just smiles. Because it no longer matters.
Yulia met Timur in the office kitchen. He was crumpling a plastic cup in his hands and complaining about the coffee. He smiled. She laughed. That’s how it started. Then—as usual: messages, accidental touches, eyes down, evening coffee for two, the office party. That very moment when hands suddenly ended up too close.
Colleagues didn’t understand: what did she see in him? No charisma, a middling salary, lived with his parents, dressed without taste. A man from the past. With no prospects.
But Yulia saw something else in him. He was… real. He didn’t act, didn’t pose. And besides—that’s when he started to change. For her. A new style, a new haircut, perfume, his voice grew more confident.
“Turned a caterpillar into a butterfly,” they joked at the office.
Yulia winced.
“I didn’t change him. He wanted to become better. And that’s rare.”
Soon there was a wedding. Quiet. Without limousines and restaurants. The registry office, a couple of photos in the park, and laughter under the rustle of the wind. They were happy. Smiling, holding hands, believing they always would be.
Women who love truly never wear armor. They go into battle with an open heart. And because of that—they’re the first to die.
Time passed. Yulia pulled the weight of the home, work, care. Timur became… different. Now attentive and tender, now cold and silent. Like a swing that keeps pushing you until you throw up.
“What’s wrong with you?” she asked.
He stayed silent. Or said he was tired.
At some point she noticed: he had begun to look at her differently. As if he were hunting for a flaw. As if… waiting for her to finally fail.
And then—a new promotion. An office, status, an assistant.
“Oh, he’s a ‘big shot’ now,” colleagues laughed.
And he really did become different. Command in his voice, confidence in his gestures. As if Yulia were not his wife, but a pleasant memory from the pre-success era.
And then he started talking about a house.
“Imagine: a house by the sea. With a terrace, white curtains, a glass of wine in the evenings,” he said, admiring his new smartphone. “How about it?”
“A dream…” Yulia would close her eyes and see it. A vanilla sunset, seagulls crying, her bare feet on warm wooden boards.
The dream became theirs. Or so she thought.
They took out a mortgage for a new apartment. The old one—they left it. That one was in Yulia’s name, from before the marriage. It stood empty. And then she saw an ad.
A house. A real one. In the south. White, with a sea view. The very one. Just like in their talks.
Yulia decided. She sold the old apartment. Her parents helped. A loan—she covered the difference. And she bought it. The house. Their dream.
She registered it in her mother’s name. Intuition whispered that she needed a safety net. Whispered in the voice of that very phrase:
“Yulya, be careful…”
“Do you know where I’m going?” she asked Timur.
He didn’t look up from the screen.
“Where?”
“To make our dream come true.”
He shrugged.
And then everything became clear.
She’d had suspicions. Then—proof. Messages. Photos. Coincidences. She kept turning a blind eye until it became unbearable. And still—she hoped.
But he left first.
An envelope on the table. Court papers.
Divorce.
Betrayal always arrives quietly. Without storms, without slamming doors. It simply wakes up next to you in the morning and makes coffee. And you realize: everything that was—is gone.
She left. For her house. The one by the sea. Where the wind tangles your hair and the seagulls cry as if warning: “Careful!”
At first it was frightening. Then—easy. Lightness came like an aftertaste after pain.
The first morning. A new kitchen. A cup of coffee. Silence. And a knock at the door.
Him.
“So, did you get the surprise?” he smirked.
“About the divorce? Yes, that was unexpected. And now what do you want?”
“The house. It’s mine. All by law. I saw the papers. Your phone has no password. Naïve. I saw everything. The house was bought during the marriage. Division. Fifty–fifty. Pack your things and go back to mommy.”
She didn’t flinch. She only slowly inhaled and exhaled.
“The house was bought with my premarital money. It’s registered to my mother. No division. But the apartment—yes. We both put money into that. That’s where there will be a trial.”
He turned pale.
“You… you did this on purpose?!”
“No, dear. I just got careful. Like my mother taught me.”
He exploded. Punched the wall next to her face.
“There are cameras here,” she said calmly. “Try it again—I’ll add it to the case.”
He left. Slamming the door so hard the roses in the vase swayed.
The trial didn’t last long. The house—outside the division. The apartment—fifty–fifty. He yelled, argued, tore papers. And she watched, amazed: how could she have loved this man?
On the way out of the courtroom, she approached him.
“Well, you’re free. Just like you wanted. Did the dream come true?”
He turned away.
And she walked off. Toward the wind. Toward the sea. Toward herself.
Once you save yourself, you will never again let anyone decide for you. Not in love, not in life. Even if you really want to believe again. You’ll remember—how much it hurt to fall.
If Yulia could go back, she wouldn’t change anything. Because now, on the shore of her dream, she knows: dreams must be built by your own hands. Only then do they become real.
A year passed.
Yulia woke to the splash of waves, stretched out on fresh sheets, and smiled. Sometimes she remembered him—not with pain, not with longing, but the way you remember an old cold. It happened. It passed. Only a trace remains in the body, and even that is fading.
Meanwhile…
…Timur was rolling downhill. Slowly. But inevitably.
First the assistant left. The very one for whom, in essence, he had started to wreck everything. She was younger, brighter, flirtatious. At first he felt like a king. Thought he’d found the one who “gets him.” And then…
“Timur, you’re too fixated on yourself. Honestly, it’s boring,” she tossed out in a café between a latte and a cheesecake.
“What do you mean?”
“Exactly that. It’s always only you. And I, sorry, want to live, not listen to you suffering over an apartment.”
She left. Lightly, beautifully, with a smile. Deleted his number and never picked up again. And Timur was left—alone. In a new rented studio on the outskirts.
Work cracked, too.
It turned out he’d gotten the promotion not so much for his merits as thanks to Yulia—she had once thrown out a good idea in a meeting, he claimed it as his own, and the boss didn’t look closely.
When this came to light—through the new team, one thing leading to another—Timur’s authority collapsed.
“You were a fit while you were ‘the life of the office,’” the boss said. “Now you’re… tired. Aggressive. Combative. People complain. We don’t need a manager with a record for making threats. Resign yourself. Or…”
He left. Proudly, he thought. But the job market wasn’t waiting for him.
When you betray a good person, the universe doesn’t strike at once. It watches first. Gives you a chance to come to your senses. And if you won’t—it hits. Not with lightning. With the everyday. Slowly. Harshly. With the mundane.
A few more months passed. Timur found temporary work—in logistics, with no prospects. The pay—a pittance. The team—strangers. He started drinking more and more. At first on weekends. Then “to sleep.” Then “so I don’t shake in the morning.”
His parents suggested he move back. His mother said:
“We love you. But we can’t tolerate your anger. If you won’t get help—then live on your own.”
He slammed the door. As always. Proud.
Then came an attempt at dating through an app. It went the way it goes for many: a couple of likes, messaging, a meeting.
“Have you been married?”
“Yes. But she was… quite the witch. Ruined everything for me. Everything I’d earned…”
“And what did you do?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you’re only talking about her. And you? What do you want?”
He fell silent. Because he didn’t know. Because the last time he’d thought about his own desires was… maybe ten years ago. Before Yulia. Before the game of career, power, and women.
The girl stood up, put on her coat, and never answered his messages again.
Meanwhile:
Yulia opened a workshop in her city. She did what she loved—furniture restoration. Old things turned new in her hands. And it brought not only money but joy.
She met a man. Not right away. She wasn’t looking. She just once walked into the gallery next door and…
But that’s another story.
As for Timur…
One day he saw her photo on social media. By the sea. With a dog. With a man beside her—he was holding her hand. So easily. Without show. The way only those who have nothing to prove can do.
He scrolled down—and saw an old photo. His. Where he was still in the shirt from Yulia, with her smile beside him. And he understood.
Everything best in his life had been connected with her.
He tapped “like.”
And then—undid it.
Some men think you can lose a real woman and then win her back. But a real woman is like dawn. If you sleep through it, wait for the next night. But it will already be another day. And another light.
Sometimes Timur sits on a bench in the park, smokes, and stares at his phone. Nothing new in the gallery. Life has gone black-and-white. No sea. No terrace. No woman who could turn gray into gold.
And only sometimes, among foggy evenings, he hears a voice:
“Be careful…”
He turns. But there’s only the wind.