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 did not come easily, but Asya was used to the responsibility. Four years ago it was this salary that allowed her to buy a one-bedroom apartment in a newly built block on the edge of the city.
Getting home took forty minutes by metro and bus. In 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 the way Asya liked it after a stressful day.
Roman had appeared in her life three months earlier at a corporate event 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.
For the first two months everything went well. Roman invited her to cafés, the cinema, for walks around the city. He never pushed 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 home. The plumbers have torn everything up, it’s impossible to live there. Can I stay at your place for a week? I’ll hire a team quickly, they’ll get everything done fast.”
Asya didn’t see anything terrible in the request. Adults help each other in difficult situations. She gave him a spare key, cleared half of the wardrobe, even bought extra towels.
Roman moved in on Saturday morning with a large sports bag and a backpack. There turned out to be more things than Asya had expected. Besides clothes and shoes he brought his laptop, tablet, chargers, toiletries, even a small coffee machine.
“You’ve only got a cezve,” Roman explained, setting the machine on the kitchen table. “And I’m used to proper coffee in the mornings.”
The first few days passed calmly. Roman didn’t bother her, cleaned up after himself, even cooked dinner a couple of times. But by the middle of the week little things started to appear that made Asya frown.
“Listen, your wardrobe is a mess,” Roman remarked as he rearranged his shirts. “Let me help you tidy it up. A man’s eye is useful sometimes.”
Asya was standing at the mirror getting ready for work, watching as Roman moved her things around as he pleased. Blouses that had hung in a particular order were now mixed up with his clothes.
“Roman, don’t touch my things, please. I’ve got my own system.”
“What system?” Roman laughed. “You yourself said you never have time to sort the wardrobe. I’m helping, and you’re unhappy.”
Asya kept quiet, hurrying to leave for work. But the unpleasant feeling stayed.
A few days later, criticism of her cooking habits began.
“Asya, is this how you cook?” Roman stood at the stove stirring her pasta with vegetables. “I’d add basil, chili. It’s totally bland like this.”
“I like the way I cook it.”
“Well, tastes differ, of course. But you can always improve something. I’ll teach you, if you want.”
Asya realized she was starting to get annoyed. Roman spoke in a friendly tone, but every remark sounded like criticism of her lifestyle.
In the second week, a new problem appeared — Roman’s mother. Raisa Ivanovna called every evening at eight, talking loudly and for a long time. At first she discussed work matters with her son, then moved on to everyday issues.
“Roman, is your girl a good homemaker?” Asya heard from the kitchen. “Can she cook? Clean? You know what young people are like these days — all they can do is hang out in cafés.”
Roman answered evasively, but one evening Raisa Ivanovna asked him to pass the phone to Asya.
“Dear, I’m Roman’s mother. I wanted to get to know you a bit better. I’ve heard my son is living with you now.”
“Temporarily,” Asya corrected her. “He’s having renovations at home.”
“Of course, temporarily,” Raisa agreed, but there was a note of irony in her voice. “And how are you managing with the cleaning? Roman is used to cleanliness. And he likes homemade food, not all those semi-finished products.”
“We’re managing,” Asya replied curtly.
“That’s good. And this weekend my sister and I are planning to come visit. We’ll see how my son’s settled in.”
Asya wanted to say she wasn’t ready for guests, but Raisa had already said goodbye and hung up.
“Roman, your mom said she’s coming to visit,” Asya told him when he finished the call.
“Yeah, she wants to meet you properly. It’s nothing, she’ll just come for a day.”
“I’m not ready to receive guests. I had plans for the weekend.”
“What plans? A manicure?” Roman shrugged. “You can reschedule. Family is more important.”
Asya felt indignation rising inside. What family? Roman was living with her temporarily, they’d only been seeing each other for three months, they had no obligations to one another.
On Saturday morning, as Asya was getting ready to go for her manicure, the intercom rang. Two middle-aged women stood outside with large shopping bags.
“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 silently, 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 just as active. Both of them immediately began inspecting the apartment, commenting on everything.
“Roman, 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. “Lida and I will take the couch. You can put a mattress on the floor for yourself.”
Asya stood in the hallway with her handbag in her hand, unable to believe what was happening. The guests were settling into her apartment, assigning sleeping places, and Roman agreed with everything.
“Asya, you don’t mind, do you?” Roman turned to her. “It’s only for a couple of days.”
“I was planning to go for a manicure,” Asya said weakly.
“Oh, what manicure?” Raisa waved her hand. “Better make some borscht, we’re hungry from the road. And bake some pies for tea. That’s how family should be welcomed.”
Asya looked at Roman, expecting him to step in or at least explain things to his mother. But he only gave her an apologetic smile 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 arrangement of the furniture, even her choice of TV programs.
“We keep things differently at home,” Raisa said, looking over the bookshelves. “Roman is used to order. And meals should be more substantial — a man needs to eat properly.”
Roman accepted his mother’s remarks as if they were perfectly normal, sometimes nodding in agreement. Asya felt like a stranger in her own apartment.
On Monday morning the guests finally left. Asya saw them to the door, politely said goodbye, and locked the door. Long-awaited silence settled over the apartment.
Roman went to 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 talk.
“Roman, I need to talk to you. Seriously.”
“About what?” he asked, switching on the coffee machine without even looking at her.
“About what’s going on. You’ve been living here for three weeks. You don’t pay anything towards the apartment, you don’t buy groceries, and you act like the owner.”
“Like the owner?” Roman turned, a puzzled expression on his face. “But I help around the house, I cook sometimes.”
“You criticize my lifestyle, rearrange my things, invite guests without asking. Your mother behaved in my apartment as if it were her own.”
“Asya, why are you splitting everything?” Roman laughed, but the laugh sounded strained. “We live like a family now. Everything is shared. The apartment has long since become shared too.”
The last sentence hit her like a blow. Asya was silent for a few seconds, processing what she’d heard.
“Shared?” she repeated slowly. “Roman, do you pay the mortgage on this apartment?”
“No, but…”
“Do you pay the utilities?”
“No, but I…”
“Groceries, household supplies, internet — do you pay for any of that?”
“Listen, don’t be so formal. Close people don’t count every penny.”
“Close people 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 nonsense. I’m living here temporarily, I help as much as I can. And you’re starting to do some bookkeeping.”
“How long is ‘temporarily’? A week has already passed, then another two. When are you planning to move out?”
“When the renovations are finished.”
“And when will they be finished?”
Roman hesitated, started talking about contractors, delays with materials, the need for quality work. Asya listened and understood — there were no concrete dates, and none were planned.
Inside, a feeling was growing that was hard to name. Not anger, not hurt — more like cold resolve. Asya stepped into the hallway, took a bunch of keys from 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.
“We’re not married, we haven’t registered anything — which means there’s nothing to share. You’re moving out.”
Roman’s face changed instantly. Confusion was replaced by indignation.
“What? Asya, are you crazy? I explained the situation with the renovations. I’ve got nowhere to go!”
“That’s not my problem.”
“How is it not your problem? We’re dating! We’re in a relationship!”
“We go on dates at the weekend. No one gave you the right to treat my apartment as your own.”
“I’m not! I’m living here temporarily!”
“You’re acting like the owner. You move my things around, criticize my food, invite relatives. And most importantly — you call my apartment ‘shared.’”
Roman took a step closer, his voice louder now.
“Asya, you can’t do this! I’ve gotten used to this place, I’ve settled in! My stuff is here, my plans!”
“What plans?”
“Well… we’re together. As a couple. Naturally, we live in one place.”
“I never agreed to that. You asked to stay until the renovations were done.”
“But we’re growing as a couple!”
“Growing at my expense. In my apartment. On my money.”
Roman raised his voice and started talking about how ungrateful she was, that you don’t treat people like this. Asya didn’t answer — she simply picked up her phone and started looking for the 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 man in my apartment who refuses to leave when asked by the owner.”
Asya dialed the duty station and calmly gave them the address.
“Good evening. There’s a man in my apartment who refuses to vacate the premises at the owner’s request. Please 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.
“You know, Asya, you’re making a mistake. I really have nowhere to go tonight. I’ll move out tomorrow, I swear.”
“Tonight. Now.”
Twenty minutes later the doorbell rang. A young district officer in uniform stood in the doorway, with a folder of documents in his hands.
“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 ownership certificate, Asya’s passport, compared the details.
“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, I’m having renovations done at home.”
“Do you have a rental contract?”
“No, we’re in a relationship.”
“Temporary registration?”
“Also no.”
“Written permission from the owner to live 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.
“Understood. I’ll explain the situation without emotions. Living together without official registration, without registration of residence, without a contract — that’s not housing, it’s temporary staying with the owner’s consent. As soon as that consent is withdrawn, your stay 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 will be considered vigilantism.”
At that moment Roman’s phone rang. His mother’s name appeared on the screen.
“Hello, Mom,” Roman answered, looking at the officer.
“Roman, how are you? That girl isn’t mistreating you, is she?”
“Mom, it’s complicated…”
Raisa spoke loudly enough for everyone in the room to hear her.
“What do you mean, complicated? Did she throw you out? Let her freeze there by herself then! 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.
“Get packed,” the officer said. “Time’s up.”
Roman silently went to pack. He stuffed clothes, toiletries and chargers into his bag. He left the coffee machine on the table.
“Take that too,” Asya nodded at the appliance.
“Just keep it, you might need it,” 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 to the hallway and put on his jacket. At the door he turned around.
“Asya, you’ll regret this. I was good to you.”
“‘Good’ is when you ask permission instead of declaring someone else’s apartment ‘shared.’”
Roman threw the key at the wall and stepped over the threshold. Asya locked the door with all the locks and turned to the officer.
“Thank you very much. Do we need to file any paperwork?”
“Nothing. Everything’s within the law. If he shows up again without an invitation, call us, we’ll draw up a report for trespassing.”
After the officer left, Asya was alone in the apartment. The silence felt unusual, but pleasant. No one commented on what she was doing, no one moved her things, no one 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 clear 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 it over calmly.”
Asya read it and deleted it without replying.
An hour later another one came.
“I’ve thought it over. I was wrong. Let’s meet tomorrow?”
She deleted it without finishing it.
At half past eleven the phone pinged again.
“You don’t want to end up alone, do you? We lived well together.”
Asya muted her 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 — and realized 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.
Over the next week Roman’s messages came every day. Asya didn’t read them — she just deleted them as soon as she saw his name. Gradually, they became less frequent.
At the weekend she rearranged the wardrobe, putting her things back where they belonged. In the far corner she found a T-shirt Roman had forgotten — she threw it in the trash. She bought a new set of bed linen, bright and cheerful, nothing like what her former live-in boyfriend would have chosen.
At work she got an offer from a major client — a business trip to another city for two weeks. Good money, an interesting project. Before, Asya had refused long trips, but now she agreed immediately.
Ten days later, as she was getting ready for the trip, another message came from Roman.
“Asya, can we at least meet once? Talk properly?”
This time she decided to answer.
“Meet with your mother. I’m not going to run a hostel at my expense.”
After that message Roman never wrote again.
Asya packed her suitcase and checked her travel documents. The apartment was in perfect order — her order, with no one else’s things or demands. Tomorrow morning was her flight: a new project, new opportunities.
On the windowsill stood a cactus her colleagues had given her for her last birthday. An undemanding plant that didn’t require constant attention and care. Just what a busy person needed.
Asya smiled, turned off the lights, and went to bed. Tomorrow a new stage of her life would begin — without uninvited guests, other people’s mothers, and claims on her living space. The apartment had become a home again, not a temporary shelter for those who confused hospitality with a free hostel.