One day, Artem appeared outside my apartment building with a travel bag in his hand.
“Take it. Kira’s getting upset.”
He stood on the steps of the ordinary nine-story apartment block where I had rented a small one-bedroom place after our divorce. On his face was the same smile that had once won me over at first sight.
Now, it only irritated me.
We had met as students, during our first year at university, and married shortly before graduation. Our life together was much like that of thousands of other young couples. We argued over unwashed dishes, made up afterward, dreamed about the future, and made plans.
It all ended when his new girlfriend, Kira, started posting pictures from our country house while we were still legally married.
I found them entirely by chance. One night, scrolling through my phone before bed, I stumbled across her profile.
 
The familiar veranda. The familiar table. The familiar mug.
My mug.
I didn’t make a scene. I didn’t scream, cry, or call every relative we had. I simply packed one suitcase, quietly closed the door behind me, and left.
I let Artem keep the apartment.
And that was the one thing he could never forgive me for.
He had wanted tears, accusations, a dramatic confrontation. Instead, I had ended it and walked away, as though closing a book I no longer wanted to read.
Whenever we happened to run into each other afterward, I could see the resentment in his eyes.
Now he was standing in front of me with a bag.
“You left a few things behind,” he said, adjusting the expensive watch on his wrist.
It was new. Most likely a gift from Kira.
“A photo album, some scarves… Kira was clearing out the overhead cupboards.”
Kira was clearing out the cupboards.
In the apartment where I used to live.
Going through my belongings.
 
Without a word, I took the bag and headed inside.
On the landing, I ran into Vadim, the neighbor who lived upstairs. He was taking out the rubbish. When he noticed how heavy the bag was, he helped carry it to my door without making a fuss.
His hands were strong, marked with small scratches and signs of hard work. He made custom furniture. In the evenings, I often heard the steady hum of his sander through the ceiling.
He always smelled faintly of wood and fresh varnish.
“Thank you.”
He nodded and quietly went on his way.
Once I had closed the door, I unzipped the bag.
Our wedding album lay on top, its white cover embossed with a delicate pattern.
Underneath were old scarves I hadn’t worn since university, a few battered notebooks, and an almost empty bottle of perfume.
Nothing but unwanted clutter.
It could all have been thrown away years ago. But Artem had chosen to deliver it himself, simply to give himself a reason to see me.
I didn’t bother sorting through any of it.
 
I zipped the bag shut, carried it outside, and left it beside the rubbish bins.
Back in my apartment, I put on some music.
I had kept one peculiar habit since my student days: whenever life became too much, I danced.
Barefoot.
In the little kitchen.
All by myself.
I closed my eyes and moved to the music, letting the tension slowly drain out of me.
Above my head came the familiar sound of Vadim sanding another piece of wood. The steady hum was unexpectedly soothing, like someone slowly running a hand over a smooth wooden surface.
I felt better.
Late that evening, Sonya called.
She was friends with both Artem and me.
“Rita, what happened between you two this time?”
I paused.
“Nothing much. He came by with a bag of old junk.”
“Junk?” Sonya sounded genuinely surprised.
For some reason, that reaction told me more than it should have.
“Did you know he was planning to come over?”
“No… Why?”
“No reason.”
Perhaps I should have become suspicious then.
But I was used to trusting Sonya. We had been friends for so many years that I believed she understood me better than most people.
She had been the first person to show up after my divorce, carrying a bottle of wine and a cake.
I thought she had always been on my side.
 
I wasn’t particularly eager to go to Zhenya’s birthday party.
I knew exactly who would be there.
Artem.
Kira.
Sonya.
Almost everyone from our old circle.
The small apartment was crowded. A long table took up nearly the entire room. Some guests perched on the windowsill, while others stood by the window with drinks in their hands.
Kira looked flawless: bright lipstick, a confident gaze, perfect posture.
At first, we talked about work, holidays, rising prices, and the usual everyday things.
Then Artem decided, as he always did, that it was time to become the center of attention.
He raised his voice slightly, waited for everyone to fall quiet, and began.
“Honestly, you have no idea! I practically starved throughout our marriage. I swear! The only thing Rita could cook was frozen dumplings. That was it! Remember that chicken you baked in foil, sweetheart? It took me a week to recover.”
Laughter rippled around the table.
Zhenya covered her mouth with her hand.
Dima smirked.
Kira tossed her hair back theatrically.
“Poor thing. At least you’re finally getting proper meals. Look at those cheeks!”
She gave his cheek a playful pinch, and everyone laughed again.
Artem was clearly enjoying himself.
I looked down at my plate.
The chicken he was mocking had been made using his mother’s recipe.
And the frozen dumplings were what he had specifically asked for every Friday.
My bread maker was still in the apartment I had left him. Every Sunday, I had baked fresh bread with nuts, dried fruit, or rosemary.
The smell had worked its way into the curtains.
I said nothing.
I finished my salad, drank the rest of my wine, and got ready to leave.
In the hallway, I turned back to Zhenya. Artem was standing beside her.
“Thank you for the evening,” I said calmly. “It’s just a shame Artem still can’t get through a single gathering without bringing me up.”
Zhenya fell silent, unsure what to say.
A muscle twitched in Artem’s cheek.
An uncomfortable pause settled over us.
Then I left.
 
A few days later, Yulia called.
She belonged to the same circle, but she had never enjoyed gossip and usually stayed out of other people’s disagreements.
There was hesitation in her voice, as though she had spent a long time deciding whether to speak.
“Rita… I don’t even know whether I should tell you this.”
“Go ahead.”
“I happened to overhear Sonya on the phone recently. She was repeating your conversation to someone almost word for word. The one where you’d been crying. I can’t say for certain… but I think she was talking to Artem.”
I listened without interrupting.
I didn’t call Sonya or demand an explanation. Instead, I decided to test my suspicion.
I sent her a casual message.
“Sonya, I think I’ve met someone. Nothing serious yet, but we’ll see where it goes.”
There was no man.
I had made the whole thing up.
Her reply came almost immediately.
“Oh, wow! You’ll have to tell me everything!”
The next day, my phone chimed.
It was a message from Artem.
“Heard you’ve got a new admirer. Don’t take too long deciding, Rita. You’re not getting any younger.”
I sat at the kitchen table for a long time, staring at the screen.
Upstairs, I could hear Vadim moving something heavy around his workshop.
Now there was no room for doubt.
 
Yulia had been right.
Sonya was passing everything I said on to Artem.
Every conversation. Every fear. Every private confession.
From that day on, I changed nothing on the surface.
I still met Sonya.
We drank tea together.
Talked on the phone.
Discussed work.
But I stopped telling her anything that mattered.
No fears.
No complaints.
Only harmless subjects.
I told her about a new commission: designing the interior of a children’s café. I talked about choosing wall colors and dealing with a demanding client.
Ordinary conversations.
The kind that couldn’t be turned into weapons.
Apparently, Sonya never noticed.
A few weeks later, an invitation arrived for Yulia and Alexei’s wedding anniversary.
A small restaurant outside the city.
An outdoor terrace.
Grilled meat, music, friends.
 
And, naturally, our entire old circle.
Which meant Artem, Kira, and Sonya would be there too.
Several times, I nearly declined.
But at the last moment, I sent a reply.
“I’ll be there.”
I couldn’t quite explain why.
The restaurant was lovely.
Its wooden terrace overlooked a small pond.
A long table stood beneath a canopy. Warm strings of lights glowed overhead as the summer evening slowly darkened over the water.
I took a seat at the end.
Sonya settled beside me, as usual.
Artem and Kira sat a couple of chairs away.
Kira wore a new, pale-colored dress.
Artem looked tanned, although the color was far too even to be natural. I remembered his regular trips to the tanning salon when we were married.
For a while, the evening passed peacefully.
 
Guests raised their glasses to the anniversary couple.
Waiters brought fresh dishes.
Conversations drifted from holidays to work, then to children, renovations, and travel plans.
Sonya chatted enthusiastically about her cat, a recent sale, and changes she was making to her apartment. Her long nails tapped softly against the tabletop. Her phone lay beside her, facedown.
When Kira went over to the grill for more food, Artem suddenly moved closer to me.
He pulled his chair almost against mine and spoke as though our divorce had never happened.
“Rita, sweetheart… Why are you still sitting here all alone?”
I looked at him calmly.
“Maybe it’s time you found yourself a decent man. You’ll wither away without one. I could introduce you to Kira’s brother. He’s divorced too. You’d probably do for him.”
He said it as though I were an object being offered to someone.
Not a woman with choices of her own.
 
Just something that might suit a man who wasn’t particularly demanding.
Discounted merchandise.
I gave a small nod.
“Thanks. I’ll think about it.”
Artem patted my shoulder with condescending familiarity, stood up, and walked toward the grill, where Kira was talking to the other guests.
Around then, Sonya went to the bathroom, leaving her phone beside her plate.
Barely a minute passed before our phones chimed almost together.
Mine.
Zhenya’s.
Yulia’s.
The four of us—Sonya, Yulia, Zhenya, and I—shared a private group chat.
Sonya had meant to send a reply to Artem, but she had posted it in the wrong conversation.
He had written to her:
“Well? Is she sitting alone? Keep an eye on her. I need to know there’s nobody with her.”
Sonya’s answer appeared in our group chat.
“She’s alone for now, Arty darling. There’s no one in her life. I’ll tell you everything later.”
Silence settled over our end of the table.
Yulia looked at her screen first.
Then she slowly raised her head.
Zhenya read the message too and turned toward me.
A few seconds later, Sonya returned.
 
She was smiling, still unaware of what had happened.
But the moment she saw our faces, her smile disappeared.
She grabbed her phone.
Read the message.
And went white.
I felt my teeth clench.
For almost a year, I had trusted a person who had never really existed.
I had cried into a void.
Shared my most private thoughts with that same emptiness.
And it had dutifully delivered every word to my former husband.
I slowly stood up.
Calmly.
Without shouting.
 
Without tears.
The way someone stands to give a toast.
“Since everyone has seen the message, I suppose I should explain what’s been happening.”
Someone set a fork down.
It made a faint metallic clink against a plate.
“For almost a year, Sonya has been telling Artem everything I confided in her. When I called late at night in tears, when I admitted I was struggling, when I said I felt as though nobody needed me—within hours, my ex-husband knew it all.”
I looked at Artem.
“And he used it. He brought over my old belongings just to remind me that he had kept the apartment. At our gatherings, he made me the joke and invented stories about our marriage. And tonight, he generously offered to introduce me to a divorced relative because, apparently, I’d ‘do for him.’”
Nobody spoke.
 
Even the breeze seemed to have dropped.
Somewhere on the pond, a duck gave a quiet quack.
I turned fully toward Artem.
“For almost a year, you’ve been keeping tabs on your ex-wife through someone I thought was my friend. I left quietly. I didn’t make a scene. But apparently, you’re the one who still can’t accept that our marriage is over.”
I paused.
“So which of us is actually unable to move on?”
Artem said nothing.
Kira stood nearby.
By then, someone had shown her Sonya’s message.
She read it slowly.
Then read it again.
One phrase seemed to wound her more than the rest.
“Keep an eye on her.”
All that time, the man sharing her life had still been preoccupied with mine.
I had nothing more to say.
 
I picked up my bag and looked at our hosts.
“Yulia, Alexei… I’m sorry this happened. Thank you for the evening. It really was lovely.”
Then I turned and walked toward the exit.
The wooden boards creaked softly beneath my heels.
Above me, the warm lights swayed.
Behind me, there was complete silence.
Nobody tried to stop me.
Not even Artem.
I got into my car.
Started the engine.
Opened the window.
And slowly drove onto the main road.
An unfamiliar, gentle song was playing on the radio.
I turned it up.
A few months passed.
Summer came.
In the evenings, my little apartment filled with warm air, the scent of poplar trees, and the smell of potatoes frying in the apartment below.
My contact with the old group gradually faded.
There were no grand announcements.
No dramatic goodbyes.
I simply stopped replying to messages and no longer attended their gatherings.
I blocked Artem’s number.
He sent two more messages before that.
I think he was trying to apologize.
I never opened them.
Sonya also tried to repair our friendship.
She sent a long voice message.
“Rita… You misunderstood everything. I only wanted to help. He was worried about you. I thought he just needed to know you were all right…”
I listened to about half of it.
Worried about me.
Of course.
The way an owner worries about a dog that has slipped its leash.
I deleted the recording without hearing the rest.
A week after that evening, Kira left Artem.
Later, I learned that she had come across his conversation with Sonya.
There were dozens of questions about me.
 
Comments about my appearance.
Discussions about whether I was dating anyone.
And one message that said:
“The main thing is to make sure she doesn’t find someone.”
After reading that, Kira quietly packed her things and left.
Artem was alone.
In the apartment we had once shared.
Surrounded by furniture Kira had chosen.
With my old bread maker still in the kitchen.
And a fresh renovation that no longer brought anyone any pleasure.
On the first anniversary of our divorce, I bought a bottle of good wine.
Lit some candles.
Put on music.
And started dancing again.
Barefoot.
In the kitchen.
Wearing an old checked shirt.
A little ridiculous.
A little awkward.
With my eyes closed.
But this time, I wasn’t dancing to escape the pain.
I was dancing because, for the first time in a long while, I felt happy.
The windows were wide open.
I hadn’t even drawn the curtains.
Music spilled freely into the evening courtyard.
The next morning, a small bouquet was waiting outside my door.
Simple spray roses, wrapped in thick brown paper that smelled faintly of wood and fresh varnish.
A note rested on top.
In large, slightly uneven handwriting, it said:
“You dance beautifully.”
I stood barefoot in the hallway for a long time, holding the flowers.
Then I laughed.
A real laugh.
One that came from somewhere deep inside.
Someone had seen a grown woman dancing alone in her kitchen.
And instead of deciding she had lost her mind…
He had simply brought her flowers.
Perhaps I wasn’t quite ready to settle for the company of a cat after all.