Yulya, please remember… you have to be careful,” her mother didn’t just say it. She implanted that feeling in her, as if she already knew: it would hurt.
Yulya didn’t argue. Not because she agreed. She just didn’t want to. She had no strength left to discuss anything. The door slammed behind her. She paused for a second in the dim stairwell — as if a shadow had passed through her. Everything suddenly became strangely quiet. Like in those movies when sound disappears for a moment, and you’re left alone with the void.
Sometimes, just before a storm, the sky seems to take a breath. And that breath — is the most terrifying.
She walked home on foot. It was chilly; the wind hit her face with the scent of October. Leaves, damp earth, and something else… something indescribable. And unforgettable.
She didn’t want to rush home. Nor was there a reason to. No one was waiting. No one asked. Formally — she was married. But how often does that word hide empty plates for two, silence at dinner, and nights spent back-to-back?
Once, everything had been different…
When a woman falls in love, she doesn’t count points or salary. She hears a voice. Sees eyes. Smells a scent. And if someone says, “He’s not right for you,” — she just smiles. Because it doesn’t matter anymore.
Yulya met Timur in the office kitchen. He was fiddling with a plastic cup and complaining about the coffee. He smiled. She laughed. That’s how it began. Then — as usual: texting, accidental touches, glances to the floor, evening coffee together, a work party. That very moment when hands suddenly got too close.
Colleagues didn’t understand: what did she see in him? No charisma, average salary, still living with parents, no fashion sense. A man from the past. No prospects.
But Yulya saw something else in him. He was… genuine. Not pretending, not posing. And he began to change. For her. A new style, a new haircut, perfume, a more confident voice.
“They turned a caterpillar into a butterfly,” they joked at the office.
Yulya frowned.
“It’s not me who changed him. He wanted to be better. And that’s rare.”
Soon came the wedding. Quiet. No limousines or restaurants. The registry office, a couple of photos in the park, and laughter under the rustling wind. They were happy. Smiling, holding hands, believing it would always be like that.
Women who truly love never wear armor. They go into battle with an open heart. And that’s why — they die first.
Time passed. Yulya carried the home, work, care. Timur became… different. Sometimes attentive and tender, sometimes cold and silent. Like a swing that rocks you until you’re sick.
“What’s wrong with you?” she asked.
He was silent. Or said he was tired.
At some point, she noticed he started looking at her differently. As if searching for flaws. As if… waiting for her to finally fail.
Then — a new promotion. Office, status, assistant.
“Oh, now he’s a ‘big shot,’” the colleagues laughed.
And he really became different. His voice was commanding, his gestures confident. As if Yulya was not his wife, but a pleasant memory from before success.
Then he started talking about the house.
“Imagine: a house by the sea. With a terrace, white curtains, a glass of wine in the evenings,” he said, staring at his new smartphone. “How about that?”
“A dream…” Yulya closed her eyes and saw it. A vanilla sunset, seagulls’ cries, her feet on warm wooden floors.
The dream became theirs. Or so it seemed.
They took a new apartment on mortgage. Left the old one. That one was in Yulya’s name, from before the marriage. It stood empty. 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.
Yulya decided. Sold the old apartment. Parents helped. The loan covered the difference. And she bought it. The house. Their dream.
Registered it — in her mother’s name. Her intuition whispered she should cover her bases. Whispered with the voice of that 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 had suspicions. Then — proof. Messages. Photos. Coincidences. She closed her eyes to it all until it became unbearable. And yet — hoped.
But he left first.
On the table — an envelope. Court papers.
Divorce.
Betrayal always comes quietly. No storms, no slamming doors. It just wakes up beside you in the morning and makes coffee. And you realize: everything that was — no longer is.
She left. To her house. The one by the sea. Where the wind tousles hair, and seagulls scream as if warning: “Be careful!”
At first, it was scary. Then — light. The lightness came like an aftertaste following pain.
The first morning. New kitchen. Cup of coffee. Silence. And a knock at the door.
He.
“Well, got your surprise?” he smirked.
“About the divorce? Yes, it 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. Naive. I saw everything. The house was bought during the marriage. Division. Fifty-fifty. Pack your things and go to your mother’s.”
She didn’t flinch. Just slowly inhaled and exhaled.
“The house was bought with my premarital money. Registered in my mother’s name. No division. But the apartment — yes. We both invested in that. That will be in court.”
He turned pale.
“You… you did this on purpose?!”
“No, darling. I just became careful. Like Mom taught me.”
He exploded. Hit the wall beside her face with his fist.
“There are cameras here,” she said calmly. “Try again — I’ll add it to the case.”
He left. Slamming the door so the roses in the vase swayed.
The trial didn’t last long. The house — off-limits for division. The apartment — split in half. He screamed, argued, tore papers. She watched and wondered: how could she have loved this man?
Exiting the courtroom, she approached him.
“Well, you’re free. Everything as you wanted. Dream fulfilled?”
He turned away.
And she walked on. Into the wind. Toward the sea. Toward herself.
Once you save yourself, you never let anyone decide for you again. Neither in love nor in life. Even if you want to believe again. You’ll remember — how painful it was to fall.
If Yulya could go back, she wouldn’t change a thing. Because now, on the shore of her dream, she knows: dreams must be built by yourself. Without other hands.
And only then — do they become real.
…
A year passed.
Yulya woke to the splash of waves, stretched on fresh sheets, and smiled. Sometimes she remembered him — not with pain, not with longing, but as one recalls an old cold. It happened. Passed. Only a trace remained in the body, and that too — fades.
Meanwhile…
…Timur was sliding down. Slowly. But inevitably.
First, the assistant left. The very one he basically destroyed everything for. She was younger, brighter, flirtatious. At first, he felt like a king. Thought he’d found the one who “understood.” But then…
“Timur, you’re too self-centered. It’s boring, honestly,” she said in a café between latte and cheesecake.
“What do you mean?”
“Literally. It’s always you. And I want to live, not hear how you suffer over an apartment.”
She left. Lightly, beautifully, smiling. Deleted his number and stopped answering. Timur was left — alone. In a new rented one-room flat on the outskirts.
Work cracked too.
It turned out he got promoted not so much for merits as thanks to Yulya — she once pitched a good idea in a meeting, he claimed it, and the boss didn’t notice.
When that came out — through the chain, through the new team — Timur’s authority collapsed.
“You suited us while you were the ‘soul of the team,’” said the boss. “Now you’re… tired. Aggressive. Troublemaking. People complain. We don’t need a boss with threats on record. Quit yourself. Or…”
He left. Proudly, as he thought. But no one was waiting for him in the job market.
When you betray a good person, the universe doesn’t punish immediately. It watches first. Gives you a chance to reconsider. And if you don’t want to — it hits. Not with lightning. But with everyday life. Slowly. Harshly. Mundanely.
A few months passed. Timur got a temporary job — in logistics, no prospects. Salary — tiny. The team — strangers. He started drinking more. A little at first, but steadily. Weekends, then “for sleep,” then “to stop shaking in the morning.”
His parents offered him to come back. His mother said:
“We love you. But we can’t tolerate your anger. If you don’t want treatment — then live separately.”
He slammed the door. As always. Proudly.
Then came an attempt at dating via an app. It went like many others: a couple likes, chatting, a meeting.
“Were you married?”
“Yes. But she was… a real bitch. Ruined everything. Everything we had…”
“And what did you do?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you only talk about her. And yourself? What do you want?”
He was silent. Because he didn’t know. Because the last time he thought about his desires was maybe ten years ago. Before Yulya. Before this game of career, power, and women.
The girl stood up, put on her coat, and stopped replying.
Meanwhile:
Yulya opened a workshop in her city. She did what she loved — furniture restoration. Old turned into new in her hands. And it brought not only money but joy.
She met a man. Not right away. Not searching. Just once she walked into a nearby gallery and…
But that’s another story.
And Timur…
One day he saw her photo on social media. By the sea. With a dog. With a man next to her — holding her hand. So easily. Without pretension. Like only those who have nothing to prove can.
He scrolled down — saw an old photo. His own. Wearing a shirt from Yulya, with her smile nearby. And realized.
All the best in his life — was connected to her.
He hit “like.”
Then — cancelled.
Some men think a real woman can be lost and then returned. But a real woman is like dawn. If you sleep through it, wait for the next night. But that will be a different day. And a different light.
Sometimes Timur sits on a park bench, smoking, staring at his phone. In the gallery — nothing new. Life has become black and white. No sea. No terrace. No woman who turned gray into gold.
And only sometimes, on misty evenings, he hears a voice:
“Be careful…”
He turns around. But there’s only wind.