“Yanka, hi! I’m nearby — can I swing by in half an hour? I grabbed your favorite cheesecake from that same pastry shop!”
The voice message from Marina that popped up on Yana’s phone made her smile. She set her book aside and stretched, feeling lazy Saturday bliss spread through her body. Her apartment—bright, spacious, furnished exactly the way she’d always wanted—was her fortress, her private paradise. And spontaneous visits from her best friend, always with sweets in hand, were the perfect finishing touch to that paradise.
“Of course, come by! I just made coffee,” she typed back quickly, already anticipating their girly chatter and the scent of fresh cake.
From the living room came the steady clacking of keys and muffled shouts—Denis, her boyfriend, had been battling someone in his online game for the second hour straight. He’d moved in with her a month ago, and his presence had slid smoothly into her settled routine. His sneakers by the door, his toothbrush next to hers, his smell mixed with the scent of her shower gel—all of it had become familiar and cozy. She walked up to him, sprawled on the big gray sofa, and kissed the top of his head, breathing in that now-beloved scent.
“Marinka’s cheesecake is coming to visit us,” she said cheerfully, heading to the kitchen to take another cup from her favorite set.
The clicking of keys stopped abruptly. In the sudden silence, her cheerful tone sounded oddly, inappropriately loud.
“Maybe… don’t?” his voice came from the sofa. It was even, but there wasn’t a trace of the relaxed mood that had filled the room a minute ago.
Yana froze by the kitchen counter and turned around in confusion. The smile was still on her lips, but it was already beginning to fade.
“What do you mean, ‘don’t’? What’s wrong with you? She’ll be here in half an hour.”
Denis set his laptop on the coffee table and sat up straight, his expression serious. He looked at her as if he were about to announce the start of a war, not discuss a friend’s visit.
“Yana, I’m serious. Let’s do today without her. I’m tired after the workweek. I want to spend the weekend with you, not listen to her endless chirping and those stupid stories about work.”
At first she thought she’d misheard. Forbid her best friend from coming over? To her own apartment? The idea was so wild and absurd that she snorted, taking it for a tasteless joke.
“Denis, are you kidding? Marina is Marina. We’ve been friends since freshman year. She’s part of my life.”
“So what? That doesn’t change the fact that she pisses me off,” his tone hardened. “She’s always butting in with advice, looking at me like she’s evaluating me. I don’t like being around her, got it?”
That’s when Yana couldn’t hold back and laughed. Not spitefully—genuinely, from the heart, the way you laugh at something completely ridiculous. The very idea that someone could seriously make demands like that felt like a plot from a cheap comedy. She was already picturing herself retelling it to Marinka and the two of them laughing until they hiccupped.
“Oh, I can’t… Denis, you just made my day! All right, stop messing around. I’m going to get the cake stand, or there won’t be anywhere to put the dessert.”
She turned away, intending to end this strange conversation, but his next shout made her stop dead. The laughter caught in her throat, and an unpleasant chill ran down her spine.
“I’m not messing around!” he barked. His voice turned foreign—sharp, filled with undisguised irritation. “You think this is funny? I’m telling you serious things! Call her. Say we’ve got other plans. Cancel her visit.”
Yana turned slowly. She stared at his scowling, reddened face and didn’t recognize him. This wasn’t the sweet, slightly shy guy she’d happily let into her home and her life a month ago. On her sofa sat a stranger—an angry man trying to command her on her own territory. The sunny comfort and relaxed warmth in the room evaporated without a trace, as if sucked out by a powerful vacuum, leaving only a ringing tension behind.
“I don’t want her coming here. That’s it,” he cut her off, staring her down, leaving no room for compromise. It was no longer a request. It was an order.
For a few seconds Yana simply looked at him, trying to reconcile the image of sweet Denis—who had made her coffee that morning—with this unfamiliar, furious man on her couch. The last remnants of amusement vanished, replaced by icy disbelief. Her face went calm, almost unreadable.
“Repeat what you just said,” her voice was low and even, stripped of any warmth.
Denis apparently mistook her calmness for weakness—for a willingness to negotiate. He softened a little, switching tactics from outright command to condescending explanation.
“Yana, listen. We’re together. This is a serious relationship, right? I moved in with you—we’re living like a family. And that means this is my home now too. Our shared space. And I, as a man, have a say in who comes into our home. I don’t want to see your friend here. She influences you badly, and I simply don’t like her. That’s my opinion, and I want you to respect it.”
He spoke confidently, laying out the shelves of his twisted logic. He wasn’t asking—he was stating his new status as a fact. In his world, everything was simple: he was a man, he lived here, therefore he made the rules. But he miscalculated. He was looking at Yana—and not seeing her.
“Your home?” she echoed, steel ringing in her voice. “Denis, are you mixing something up? You live here because I allowed you to live here. Because your rented room in Bibirevo was a bug-infested dump and I felt sorry for you. That doesn’t make this apartment ‘ours.’”
His face began to flush again. Mentioning his previous place was a low blow.
“Oh, so that’s how it is? Now you’re going to throw that in my face? I thought we were building a future, but it turns out you think I’m some kind of freeloader? I didn’t beg—you offered yourself!”
“I offered you to stay with me, not to become the boss here,” Yana snapped. She took a step toward him. Her cozy home sweater suddenly looked like armor. “Marina will be here in twenty minutes. She’s my friend. She will come to my home whenever I or she wants. That’s not up for discussion.”
It was a declaration of war. Denis jumped up from the sofa. His height and broad shoulders should have looked threatening, but Yana didn’t retreat an inch. She stared straight into his eyes, and there was no fear in her gaze—only cold, contemptuous astonishment. It was as if she were seeing him clearly for the first time: not a charming guy, but a petty, insecure man trying to assert himself at her expense, on her territory. The mask had slipped.
“So that’s it?” he hissed, looming over her. “So your little friend matters more to you than I do? More than our relationship? I’m telling you I’m uncomfortable around this person, and you’re just presenting me with a fait accompli! That’s not a family, Yana! In a normal family a wife listens to her husband!”
He didn’t even notice how he’d switched to “wife” and “husband.” That word—once a distant, possible future for them—came out of his mouth like a brand, like an attempt to stamp ownership.
“Husband?” Yana gave a quiet, humorless smirk. “Are you serious right now? You decided to become my husband so you could forbid me from seeing my friend? Brilliant plan. Too bad it won’t work.”
She went around him and headed to the kitchen table, demonstratively picked up her phone.
“What are you doing?” he asked tensely.
“Checking the time,” she answered calmly. “Marinka has fifteen minutes left. That’s enough for you to come to your senses and stop talking nonsense. Or to pack your things. Your choice.”
“Your choice?” Denis repeated, and open mockery crept into his voice. He stepped toward Yana, closing the distance to almost nothing, his face twisting into a contemptuous grin. “You really think you can give me ultimatums? You think I’ll get scared and tuck my tail?”
He was sure of himself. Sure that this was just a woman’s tantrum—another caprice that had to be endured, crushed, broken. He didn’t see the owner of the apartment in front of him; he saw his woman, someone he believed he’d almost tamed. A month of living together he saw not as hospitality, but as his little victory, the capture of new territory. And he wasn’t about to give ground because of some friend.
“Yana, wake up. We’re a couple. And if you care about this relationship, you’ll take your phone right now, call your Marina, and cancel her visit. Then we’ll calmly discuss everything. Like adults. Without these childish threats. Because I’m the man here. And I decide how we live.”
He spoke slowly, emphatically, as if hammering nails. He looked down at her, expecting to see confusion, fear, a readiness to obey. But he saw none of it. Yana looked through him, and her eyes—still warm and loving not long ago—had turned into two chips of gray ice. She listened in silence, letting him talk himself out, reach the end, cross the very last, fatal line. And he crossed it.
When he finished his monologue, she didn’t answer right away. She raised her eyes to him slowly. There was no anger, no hurt in them. Only disgust—the kind you feel when something foul has accidentally stuck to the sole of an expensive shoe.
“First earn enough to buy an apartment yourself, and then you can play the owner in it! But here, don’t you even open your mouth!”
Her voice was quiet, stripped of emotion, but every word hit him like a slap. The sentence, delivered with icy calm, was more terrifying than any scream.
For a moment Denis was stunned. He stared at her, not believing what he’d heard. All his swagger, all his borrowed confidence, peeled off like cheap gilding. He’d expected anything—tears, shouting, arguing—but not this calm, annihilating verdict.
“You… what did you say?” he forced out, feeling blood rush to his face.
But Yana wasn’t looking at him anymore. It was as if she’d erased him from her field of vision. She unlocked her phone; her fingers flew over the screen. She wasn’t searching for Marinka’s number. She found a contact labeled “Dad.” Denis saw it and went cold.
“What are you doing? Put the phone down!” he tried to snatch it from her hands, but she took a sharp step back, dodging him. His attempt to use force was the last straw.
Yana lifted the phone to her ear. The speaker rang. Denis froze, staring at her with wide eyes. He still couldn’t believe this was happening for real.
“Dad, hi. Can you come by in about an hour?” Her tone was completely everyday, as if she were asking him to pick up groceries. “Denis is moving out. Can you help me carry his things out so he doesn’t forget anything? Yeah. Thanks, I’m waiting.”
She ended the call and set the phone on the table. Then she looked at Denis again—at his reddened face, twisted with rage and humiliation.
“I didn’t ask you for help,” she said in the same lifeless voice. “I informed you. Start packing.”
Time, which had been stretching in lazy Saturday syrup, suddenly compressed to its limit. Each second became dense and heavy. Denis stood in the middle of the room, turned into a statue of flesh and blood. His flushed face slowly went corpse-pale. Humiliation, disbelief, and powerless fury wrestled across it, forming an ugly mask. He stared at Yana as if seeing her for the first time—and he didn’t like this new image of her at all.
“You’re serious?” he rasped when his speech returned. “You called daddy? Like a little girl tattling because someone took her toy? You’re ready to ruin everything over some friend?”
Yana didn’t answer. She walked past him into the bedroom, and he heard her open the closet door. A moment later she came back holding two of his empty gym bags and tossed them at his feet. They landed on the laminate with a dull thud.
“I think this will be enough. If not, I’ll give you trash bags. Your things are in the closet and the dresser. Toothbrush and razor are in the bathroom. There’s nothing else of yours here.”
Her businesslike tone infuriated him more than any shouting. She wasn’t making a scene, wasn’t accusing him. She was simply organizing the disposal process. He was no longer her boyfriend, no longer a loved one. He’d become a set of belongings that needed to be removed from her apartment.
“Yana, let’s talk,” he stepped toward her, switching tactics to pleading. “I’m sorry, I snapped. I didn’t mean that. We’re adults. We love each other. Are you really going to let some nonsense ruin everything?”
She looked at him the way you look at a beggar on the street. The gaze was cold and completely empty.
“You have about forty minutes, Denis. If I were you, I’d hurry.”
She turned and went to the kitchen. He heard her turn on the tap, pour water into the kettle, and set it on the stove. Those ordinary domestic sounds in the current situation felt surreal and mocking. She was going to drink tea while he gathered the remnants of his life in her apartment. That realization finally broke him. With a doomed sigh, he picked up the bags and trudged into the bedroom. He yanked his shirts and T-shirts off hangers, crumpling them and stuffing them into the bag. Each item reminded him how good he’d had it here. The T-shirt they’d worn while watching movies cuddled up. The jeans she’d talked him into buying. Now it all turned into useless junk that had to be removed immediately.
Exactly forty-five minutes later, the doorbell rang. Short, confident. Denis froze in the middle of the room with a half-filled bag in his hands. Yana calmly walked past him and opened the door.
On the threshold stood her father. A large, calm man in his fifties, gray at the temples. He didn’t look like a bodybuilder or a thug—just a big, solid person with an inner strength and absolute confidence. He silently nodded at Yana, stepped into the entryway, and threw Denis a brief, assessing glance. There was no anger, no threat in that look. Only evaluation. Like a piece of furniture that needed to be carried out.
“Hello, Denis,” he said evenly.
“H-hello,” Denis squeezed out.
Her father looked around the room.
“What needs taking out?” he asked Yana, completely ignoring Denis’s further existence.
“These two bags, and one more in the bedroom,” Yana replied.
Her father walked into the bedroom without a word, picked up the remaining bag, and, grabbing the other two, headed for the exit. He moved without fuss, but quickly. Denis remained standing in the middle of the living room, lost and humiliated.
“Well?” Yana asked, standing by the open door. “Or do you want him to come back and help you get out too?”
Denis grabbed his laptop and jacket and walked out in silence. As he passed her, he couldn’t bring himself to lift his eyes. On the landing, his bags were already waiting. Her father stood by the elevator.
Denis stepped out. Yana didn’t say a word. She simply took hold of the door handle.
“Yana…” he began, turning back.
The door closed. It didn’t slam—it closed softly, with a quiet, final click of the lock. It was the loudest sound he had ever heard. Her father pressed the elevator button. The mechanism hummed, and the car began moving up. The two of them stood in complete silence on the landing. One—the winner. The other—banished. And that silence was the cruelest ending of all possible…