Asya left the office at half past six, as usual. Working as a logistics specialist in a distribution company required constant attention—suppliers, clients, warehouses, documents. Seventy-two thousand a month didn’t come easily, but Asya was used to the responsibility. Four years ago it was exactly this salary that allowed her to buy a one-room apartment in a new building on the edge of the city.
It took her forty minutes to get home by metro and bus. During that time she managed to plan her evening, look through work messages, sometimes just listen to music. The apartment greeted her with silence and order—exactly how Asya liked it after a stressful day.
Roman had appeared in her life three months ago at a corporate party of one of their suppliers. Tall, with a pleasant smile, he could keep up any conversation. He worked as a manager in a construction company and told funny stories about clients and colleagues. After the party he walked Asya home, and then they started seeing each other regularly.
The first two months everything went well. Roman invited her to cafés, to the movies, for walks around the city. He never tried to stay the night, always told her his plans in advance. Asya began to think that she had finally met a grown man who understood boundaries.
“Asya, I’ve got a problem,” Roman said at the end of May when they met after her work. “They’ve started major renovations at my place. The plumbers have torn everything apart, it’s impossible to live there. Can I stay at your place for a week? I’ll hire a crew as soon as possible, they’ll do everything quickly.”
Asya saw nothing terrible in this request. Adults help each other in difficult situations. She gave him a spare key, cleared half the wardrobe, even bought extra towels.
Roman moved in on Saturday morning with a big sports bag and a backpack. There were more things than Asya had expected. Besides clothes and shoes, he brought his laptop, tablet, chargers, cosmetics, and even a small coffee machine.
“You only have a cezve,” Roman explained, setting the appliance on the kitchen table. “And I’m used to proper coffee in the mornings.”
The first few days went smoothly. Roman didn’t get in the way, cleaned up after himself, even cooked dinner a couple of times. But by the middle of the week little things started that made Asya frown.
“Listen, your wardrobe is such a mess,” Roman remarked, rearranging his shirts. “Let me help you tidy it up. A man’s eye can be useful sometimes.”
Asya was standing by the mirror, getting ready for work, and watching how Roman rearranged her things as he pleased. Blouses that had hung in a specific order now hung mixed in with his clothes.
“Roman, don’t touch my things, please. I have my own system.”
“What system?” Roman laughed. “You yourself said you never have time to sort your wardrobe. I’m helping, and you’re unhappy.”
Asya stayed silent, hurrying to get to work. But the unpleasant aftertaste remained.
A few days later came criticism of her cooking habits.
“Asya, is this how you cook?” Roman was standing at the stove, stirring her pasta with vegetables. “I’d add some basil, chili pepper. Yours turns out completely bland.”
“I like the way I cook it.”
“Well, tastes differ, of course. But you could improve something. I can teach you, if you want.”
Asya realized she was starting to get irritated. Roman spoke in a friendly tone, but every remark sounded like criticism of her way of life.
In the second week a new problem appeared—Roman’s mother. Raisa Ivanovna called every evening at eight, spoke loudly and for a long time. At first she discussed work matters with her son and then moved on to household issues.
“Romochka, is your girl good around the house?” Asya heard from the kitchen. “Can she cook? Clean? You know what young people are like now—they’re only good at going to cafés.”
Roman answered evasively, but one evening Raisa Ivanovna asked him to hand the phone to Asya.
“Dear, I’m Roman’s mother. I want to get to know you better. I’ve heard my son is living with you now.”
“Temporarily,” Asya corrected her. “He’s having renovations done at home.”
“Of course, temporarily,” Raisa agreed, but there was some irony in her voice. “And how are you managing with the cleaning? Roman is used to cleanliness. And he likes home-cooked food, not all those semi-finished products.”
“We’re managing,” Asya replied dryly.
“That’s good. And this weekend my sister and I are planning to come visit. We’ll see how my son is settled.”
Asya wanted to say she wasn’t ready for guests, but Raisa had already said goodbye and hung up.
“Roman, your mother said she’s coming to visit,” Asya told him when he finished the call.
“Yeah, she wants to get to know you properly. No big deal, she’ll come just for a day.”
“And I’m not ready to have guests over. I had plans for the weekend.”
“What plans? Manicure?” Roman shrugged. “You can reschedule. Family is more important.”
Asya felt indignation rising inside her. What “family”? Roman was living with her temporarily, they had only been seeing each other for three months, they had no obligations to each other.
On Saturday morning, just as Asya was getting ready to go for her manicure, the intercom buzzed. Two middle-aged women with big shopping bags stood outside the building.
“Mommy’s here!” Roman announced happily, coming out of the shower in a bathrobe. “And this is Aunt Lida, Mom’s sister. They’re staying with us for a couple of days.”
“With us.” Asya repeated the words to herself, feeling her shoulders tense.
Raisa Ivanovna turned out to be a plump woman with a determined look and a habit of speaking loudly. Aunt Lida was shorter but no less energetic. Both of them immediately began inspecting the apartment, commenting on the furnishings.
“Romochka, where do you sleep?” his mother asked, peeking into the room.
“On the couch for now,” Roman replied. “Asya only has one bed.”
“I see,” Raisa nodded, giving the apartment’s owner a meaningful look. “We’ll take the couch with Lida. You can make yourself a bed on the floor for now.”
Asya stood in the hallway with her handbag in her hands, unable to believe what was happening. The guests were settling themselves in her apartment, deciding who would sleep where, and Roman agreed to everything.
“Asya, you don’t mind, do you?” Roman turned to her. “Just for a couple of days.”
“I was planning to go get my nails done,” Asya said, confused.
“Oh, what nails?” Raisa waved a hand. “You’d better cook borscht, we’re hungry after the road. And bake some pies for tea. Family should be welcomed properly.”
Asya looked at Roman, expecting him to say something to his mother or at least explain the situation. But the man only smiled apologetically and shrugged.
The weekend turned into a nightmare. Raisa and Aunt Lida took over the couch, turned the TV up to full volume, constantly demanded tea and food. They criticized the quality of the cleaning, the placement of the furniture, even the choice of TV programs.
“At home we have things arranged differently,” Raisa declared, examining the bookshelves. “Roman is used to cleanliness. And you need to cook more hearty, a man should eat well.”
Roman accepted his mother’s remarks as normal, sometimes nodding in agreement. Asya felt like a stranger in her own apartment.
On Monday morning the guests finally left. Asya walked them to the door, politely said goodbye and locked the door. Long-awaited silence settled over the apartment.
Roman left for work without waiting for a serious conversation. All day Asya thought about the situation. In the evening she waited for him to come home and suggested they discuss what was going on.
“Roman, I need to talk to you. Seriously.”
“About what?” He turned on the coffee machine without even looking in Asya’s direction.
“About what’s happening. You’ve been living here for three weeks now. You don’t pay anything for the apartment, you don’t buy groceries, and you behave like the owner.”
“Like the owner?” Roman turned around, his face showing surprise. “I help around the house, I cook sometimes.”
“You criticize my lifestyle, rearrange my things, invite guests without warning. Your mother behaved in my apartment like it was her own home.”
“Asya, why are you splitting everything?” Roman laughed, but his laughter sounded strained. “We’re living like a family. Everything’s shared now. And the apartment has long since become… well, shared too.”
The last phrase hit her like a slap. Asya was silent for a few seconds, processing what she’d heard.
“Shared?” she repeated slowly. “Roman, are you paying the mortgage on this apartment?”
“No, but…”
“Are you paying the utility bills?”
“No, but I…”
“Groceries, cleaning supplies, internet—do you pay for any of that?”
“Listen, don’t be so formal. People who are close don’t count every penny.”
“People who are close don’t declare someone else’s property shared,” Asya said firmly.
Roman turned to the window, then looked back at her with an irritated expression.
“Asya, you’re talking strangely. I’m staying here temporarily, I help as much as I can. And you’re making some kind of calculations.”
“How long is ‘temporarily’? A week has passed, then another two. When are you planning to move out?”
“When the renovation is finished.”
“And when will the renovation be finished?”
Roman hesitated, started saying something about contractors, delays with materials, the need for quality work. Asya listened and realized—there were no concrete dates and none were planned.
Inside her, a feeling grew that was hard to name. Not anger, not resentment—rather a cold resolve. Asya went to the hallway, took a bunch of keys out of her jacket pocket. She removed the spare key to the apartment from the ring and returned to the kitchen.
“Roman,” she called calmly.
The man turned. Asya held out the key to him.
“We’re not married, not officially registered—so there’s nothing to divide. Move out.”
Roman’s face changed instantly. Bewilderment turned into indignation.
“What? Asya, are you out of your mind? I just explained the situation with the renovation. I have nowhere to go!”
“That’s not my problem.”
“How is it not yours? We’re dating! We’re in a relationship!”
“We go on dates on weekends. No one gave you the right to dispose of my apartment.”
“I’m not disposing of it! I’m living here temporarily!”
“You behave like the owner. You rearrange my things, criticize my cooking, invite your relatives. And most importantly—you call my apartment ‘shared’.”
Roman took a step closer, his voice louder.
“Asya, you don’t do things like this! I’ve gotten used to it here, I’m settled in! I have my things here, my plans!”
“What plans?”
“Well… we’re together. As a couple. It’s only natural that we live in one place.”
“I never agreed to that. You asked to wait out the renovation.”
“But we’re developing as a couple!”
“Developing at my expense. In my apartment. On my money.”
Roman raised his voice, started talking about ingratitude, about how you don’t treat people like that. Asya didn’t answer—she just took her phone and began looking for the local district officer’s number in her contacts.
“What are you doing?” Roman froze in the middle of the kitchen.
“Calling the police. There’s a person in my apartment who refuses to leave the premises at the owner’s request.”
Asya dialed the precinct’s duty line and calmly gave the address.
“Good evening. There’s a man in my apartment who refuses to leave at the demand of the owner. I’m asking you to send a district officer.”
She hung up and looked at Roman. He was still sitting on the couch, but there was less confidence in his posture now.
“You know what, Asya, you’ll regret this. I really have nowhere to go tonight. I’ll move out tomorrow, I promise.”
“Tonight. Now.”
Twenty minutes later the doorbell rang. A young district officer in uniform, with a folder of documents in his hand, was standing at the door.
“Good evening. I was called about someone unlawfully staying in the apartment?”
“Yes, please come in,” Asya stepped aside. “This is my apartment, here are the ownership documents. And this man refuses to leave.”
The officer carefully examined the certificate of ownership, Asya’s passport, and checked the data.
“I see. And you, young man, can you show any documents giving you the right to live in this apartment?”
Roman got up from the couch and reached into his pocket for his passport.
“I… It’s complicated. I’m here temporarily, my place is under renovation.”
“Do you have a lease agreement?”
“No, we’re… in a relationship.”
“Temporary registration?”
“No, that too.”
“Written permission from the owner to reside here?”
Roman looked at Asya, then at the officer.
“It was all verbal. Between close people.”
The officer nodded and wrote something in his notebook.
“Alright. I’ll explain the situation without emotion. Cohabitation without official registration, without temporary registration, without a contract—that’s not a residence, it’s a temporary stay with the owner’s consent. As soon as that consent is withdrawn, your presence becomes unlawful. The owner has every right to demand that you vacate the premises immediately.”
“And what if my things are here?” Roman pointed to the corner where the sports bag stood.
“Pack your things and leave the apartment. Right now. Otherwise this can be regarded as unlawful self-will.”
At that moment Roman’s phone rang. His mother’s name popped up on the screen.
“Hello, Mom,” Roman answered, looking at the officer.
“Romochka, how are you? Is that girl treating you badly?”
“Mom, the situation is complicated here…”
Raisa’s voice was loud enough that everyone present could hear her.
“What do you mean complicated? Did she throw you out? Then let her freeze alone now! Spoiled egoist!”
Asya took the phone from Roman’s hand.
“Raisa Ivanovna, this is Asya. Roman is vacating my apartment at my request. And yes, I wasn’t freezing even before I met your son.”
She hung up and handed the phone back to Roman.
“Start packing,” the officer said. “Time’s up.”
Roman silently went to pack his things. He stuffed clothes, cosmetics, and chargers into the bag. He left the coffee machine on the table.
“Take that too,” Asya indicated the appliance.
“Just keep it, it might come in handy,” Roman muttered.
“I don’t need anything of yours.”
Roman shoved the coffee machine into his backpack and zipped up the bag. He carried his things into the hallway and put on his jacket. At the door he turned around.
“Asya, you’ll regret this. I was good to you.”
“‘Good’ means asking permission, not declaring someone else’s apartment ‘shared.’”
Roman threw the key at the wall and walked out. Asya locked the door with all the locks and turned to the officer.
“Thank you very much. Do I need to file any papers?”
“No. Everything is within the law. If he shows up again without invitation, call us, we’ll draw up a violation report.”
After the officer left, Asya was alone in the apartment. The silence felt unusual, but pleasant. No one commented on her actions, moved her things, or criticized her dinner.
She put the kettle on and turned on her favorite music. There was no stranger’s soap in the bathroom, no men’s slippers by the door. The kitchen table was free of the coffee machine.
At ten in the evening a message came from Roman.
“Asya, you already regret it, don’t you? We can talk everything over calmly.”
Asya read it and deleted it without replying.
An hour later came another one.
“I’ve realized everything. I was wrong. Let’s meet tomorrow?”
She deleted it without finishing reading.
At half past eleven the phone beeped again.
“You don’t want to be alone, do you? We lived well together.”
Asya turned off message notifications and went to bed. In her own bed, in her own apartment, with no foreign sounds or presence.
In the morning she got up early, as usual. She made coffee in the cezve—it turned out she liked her own way of making it much more than the machine’s. She got ready for work calmly, no one was hogging the bathroom or commenting on her choice of clothes.
Throughout the week messages from Roman came every day. Asya didn’t read them—she just deleted them when she saw his name. Gradually their frequency decreased.
On the weekend she rearranged the wardrobe, returned her things to their usual places. In the far corner she found a T-shirt Roman had forgotten—she threw it in the trash bag. She bought a new set of bedding, bright and cheerful, the kind her former live-in boyfriend would never have chosen.
At work she received an offer from a major client—a business trip to another city for two weeks. Good money, an interesting project. Before, Asya had turned down long trips, but now she agreed immediately.
Ten days later, as she was getting ready for the trip, another message from Roman came.
“Asya, can we at least meet? Talk properly?”
This time she decided to answer.
“Meet with your mother. I’m not going to turn my place into a dorm at my own expense.”
After that message Roman didn’t write again.
Asya packed her suitcase and checked the documents for the business trip. The apartment was in perfect order—her order, with no one else’s things or demands. Tomorrow morning was the flight, a new project, new opportunities.
On the windowsill stood a cactus her coworkers had given her for her last birthday. An undemanding plant that didn’t need constant attention and care. Exactly what a busy person needs.
Asya smiled, turned off the light and went to bed. Tomorrow a new stage of her life would begin—without uninvited guests, other people’s mothers, or claims on her living space. The apartment had become a home again, not a temporary shelter for those who confuse hospitality with a free hostel