I put the kettle on, slamming the lid loudly—"as if by accident." Actually, on purpose. I wanted, even for a moment, to pull him out of that universe where he seems to have completely dissolved: in the screen, in messages, in other voices. I wanted him to just… look. See me. Not as a shadow in the kitchen. Not as background behind him. But as a woman who is still here.
He doesn't react.
I freeze, staring at his back. The dark fabric of his T-shirt stretches over his shoulders—a familiar curve when he's focused. But in that moment, I don't want familiarity. I suddenly feel a wave of something sharp rising. Not just irritation—no. It's longing, quiet and sticky, like fog. As if I'm on the edge of his world again. As if my presence is just a shadow in the corner of the frame, easily erased.
"Do you always carry that tech everywhere?" I blurt out.
I try to make my voice light, even ironic, but the phrase flies out like a stone. Harsh. Dry. Like a door slamming shut. He turns slowly. His gaze—prickly, tired.
"Yes. And is that a problem?" His voice is sharp, like a blade. There's defensiveness in it, readiness for a fight. As if I've already attacked and he's raised a shield without waiting for an explanation.
I look away, pressing my lips together.
"No," I exhale, my throat dry. "It's just… wherever I look—you're either on your phone or your laptop…"
As if I… am unnecessary. As if I'm interfering with his world.
The air between us thickens. And in that silence, the seconds tick loudly. I suddenly feel foolish—and hurt, and terribly alone. Not because he's silent, but because I start fearing that he's long stopped hearing my voice… stopped noticing.
A pause hangs. Weightless—and at the same time heavy, like the dense air before a storm. I stare at the kettle, but my chest starts to ache—not with anger, but with hurt. Bitter, wordless. As if I'm unheard again. Unseen.
Max sets the device aside. Stands up. Walks slowly, with that calm that always precedes a storm. His steps thud softly on the floor, and my heart starts beating faster. He stands close, placing his hands on either side of me on the countertop, pinning me to the cold surface, and the air between us thickens like before a thunderstorm. His hands still don't touch me, but the absence of touch intensifies the tension—as if the very possibility of touching burns more than the real contact. The distance between us disappears, and I feel his breath on my skin—warm, uneven, unsettlingly close. My heart beats louder than the raindrops on the window, and I have to stifle a tremor—whether from fear or desire, I don't know.
"Feeling daring, Rebel Girl?" His voice lowers, softens. Tension, a game. A dangerous game. He sounds like a taut string about to snap into a dull crash—as if his words carry threat, passion, and something far deeper than mere provocation.
It feels like someone is truly crossing a line, breaking all boundaries. Fragile, invisible, long-forgotten—but painfully familiar. Boundaries where the unexpected begins, yet it's desperately desired. I feel a spark growing between us, turning into a storm.
"What? Not allowed?" I try to be cheeky.
I start flirting. Too obviously. Too theatrically. But I can't stop—he's lighting a fire inside me that hasn't burned for far too long. Somewhere deep, the old me awakens—the one who lives on the edge, breathes freedom, and fears no fall.
"You can," his lips curl in a faint smirk. "But you'll lose anyway, so better not start."
The words are casual, but they carry a confidence that takes my breath away. He knows how to drive me crazy. Knows exactly which buttons to press to make my heart pound and my voice tremble, even though I try to appear strong.
"You know I always get what I want. And I never lose," I challenge boldly. But inside, fear clenches me, because I know this is no longer a game. This is a return to what we once burned to ashes. In the ashes, feelings still smolder—and I feel them. Too sharply.
"Wanna bet?" he suddenly says. Like a shot. His voice dangerous, defiant, almost predatory. Not asking—challenging, openly, brazenly, like he learned from the old me.
I freeze, uncertain what Max intends. It seems his gaze holds something more than mere interest. He looks straight through me, without masks, without adornment. And it scares me.
"I don't bet anymore. After those races… no, thanks," I murmur, recalling the time that turned our lives upside down. My voice betrays a quiver. Like then. Like that night.
"Right. The races…" he seems to savor the word. It glides through the air like a knife on skin. "So? Bet or not? Or are you no longer Rebel Girl, but a little coward?"
"What?.." I flare up. "Watch your tongue! I haven't changed a bit!" I lie, not blinking. The words fly too quickly, too sharply. As if to cover the vulnerability I hide even from myself.
Inside, everything screams with pain. I have changed. Yes. Long ago. I don't run clubs or race cars anymore. I'm a mom. Now my madness is bedtime stories and tearless dreams. Even my clothes—no black or red, only soft colors, comfy fabrics. I'm no longer the one he knew. The one he once held by the hand or kissed in this apartment.
"Then agree. And we'll find out who's right," he whispers, dragging his nose along my neck. Goosebumps run across my skin, making my heart race. I feel all my thoughts dissolve in this moment, as if time stops.
Max is so close that his barely audible breath seems to penetrate my soul. It's not just touch—it's a memory, coming alive between us. I lose myself for a second, forgetting everything before this, forgetting everything that recently seemed important. In this moment, there's only him and me, and without words, I understand—nothing will ever be the same.
"Fine," I exhale and sharply tilt my head aside before surrendering completely. "But first, let's determine: what are we betting on, how to decide the winner, and… what's the prize."
He smiles, unhurriedly stepping back, returning to his laptop. Calm, self-satisfied, with a faint expression of a winner—as if everything is going exactly according to plan.
The expression on his face is so confident that I feel irritation creeping over me. Max is so sure of himself that he doesn't doubt—everything that happens will eventually turn in his favor. I stay in the shadow of his confidence, as if I can't find my place in this unpredictable dance. And yet, something trembles inside me—maybe fear, maybe excitement, or maybe… anticipation.
"The prize is a wish, as usual. But I've already figured out a way to choose the winner. I'll tell you tonight," he winks at me.
And in that wink, he is there again—the same Max with whom we once flew too high and fell too painfully. And I know: there's no way back now.
I bite my lip. It seems I'm in trouble again. The main thing is that it doesn't turn into a disaster. The main thing is that Mary doesn't get hurt. I won't let her become a hostage of our games. But I agreed. Because I can't do otherwise. Because, despite everything, he still means too much to me.
A wish… I have only one. That he forgives me. That he at least tries to understand. I desperately want my boy to look at me the way he used to—with that same unconditional trust in his eyes, with the feeling that I am everything he has. I dream of being near him, as if those three years never happened, as if time could erase everything we went through and bring us back to the moments when everything seemed simple and clear. But I know it's almost impossible. I broke his heart. I caused the wounds that now bleed between us. And it was already wounded before me—I just added new ones from my own world at that time. Now I'm losing him, like sand slipping through my fingers, and I can do nothing to bring back what was lost.
His voice pulls me out of my thoughts. He is talking to someone on the phone. I tense and listen, trying not to breathe. Only Max is audible.
"Will you be there today?" I don't hear the reply, but I feel my chest tighten.
"Okay. Can you bring my beauty? I miss her already," his voice isn't the same. Too light, too casual. As if talking about another woman is just everyday business for him, not something that should provoke jealousy.
"Yes, we have great love," his laugh through the phone sounds too sincere. I feel my heart literally fall into an abyss.
How could I be so stupid? This is Max. But he's not the same anymore. And somewhere inside, I hope it can still be reversed, that I can get him back, return to where we were together and where he was mine. Where I was his. But now I don't even know who he is or if he's still mine, not that "beauty's."
"I want to introduce her to Katrin. Or rather, it's better to say the opposite—Katrin to my beauty. Do you think she'll appreciate her?"
He asks calmly, without any hint of concern, as if it's just a simple meeting between two people. This isn't accidental. He hasn't been my Max for a long time. His heart belongs to someone else, and now I'm just a leftover part of his past, something he long forgot while trying to build something new, something with another woman. But I have no forgiveness for that. I can't forgive him for the pain he brings me with every glance, every indifferent phrase.
"Yes, we'll both be there today. She and I have one matter," he answers and ends the call with a light "See you tonight."
The words echo in my head, each resonating like a blow to the heart itself. Max has a girlfriend while I have none? Now everything makes sense, and I start to understand why he is so cold to me. His heart belongs to another, and I can do nothing about it. This realization hits me hard. Now it's clear why Max's behavior changed so drastically. Since our recent meeting, he's acted completely like another person. I try to believe that the boy I loved is still inside him, but this hope dies more and more each day.
And in that moment, I understand that I have lost everything. I have lost him. Again, and now—forever. This realization is heavy, like a burden impossible to drop. I try to find excuses, reasons why everything went wrong, but nothing remains except the bitterness of loss. He leaves without looking back, and I stand on the edge of an abyss, not knowing how to return. Everything I once considered my truth is shattered, and now I stand among the fragments.
Is it really impossible to bring back the old Max? The one who looked at me with love, not with that cold gaze that seems to wall us off with an invisible barrier. The one who smiled at me warmly so I could feel his care, not this person whose look seems so distant, as if I mean nothing to him. The one who loved me so deeply he couldn't hide his emotions, and now it's like the old him is dead, leaving only his unsociable shell.
Yes, he gives love to Mary, but not to me. With me, he barely talks and often ignores my presence. Sometimes he says something, like this morning, but those moments become rarer, like precious sparks that disappear too quickly.
Evening comes, and we call a taxi, the three of us going to Vi. He's not home, and we leave Mary in Vera's care. The taxi takes us almost to the edge of the city. I don't know what awaits, so I choose jeans, a red sweater, and a white jacket over it. He decides to wear all black. I can't deny it suits him even more than me, adding mystery, as if a shadow hides something deeper than he allows to show.
"Don't leave me," he says in a commanding tone. I could protest, but, as always, I stay silent. Where could I go if I don't even feel needed here?
"Max!" a man calls us, his voice sharp, as if trying to hold us back.
We turn, and our gaze immediately meets his face—it's familiar, but something about it is strange, unsettling. His eyes follow us, and I feel a chill run down my spine. We stop and change direction toward him.
We move through the crowd, step by step, until we reach the man who called. He's covered in tattoos, his whole figure inked. His gaze is rough, angry. I freeze, recognizing him. I look into his face, and suddenly a memory flashes—this is him.
How can Max know him? My mind races, trying to find an answer, but emotions tear apart every attempt to understand. My heart tightens with anxiety and a sense of impending danger. One thought spins in my head: "You need to run from people like this, not approach them."
Tension hangs in the air, and I can almost smell danger. The thought flashes again: "Don't get involved with him."
But it's too late.