"I thought that after the reunion, your relationship would improve," Vera started the heavy conversation. Her eyes searched for an answer, hoping to find it in me. "What's the problem?"
"He still hasn't forgiven me," bitterness sounded in my voice; this resentment was not just a word, but a heavy burden pressing on my heart.
"Why? Have you talked about it?" she continued asking, and I didn't know how to answer her correctly.
"No. There's not much to say if it's already clear that in his eyes, I'm a traitor. Although that's true," these words burst from the depth of a soul full of regret and pain. My gaze dulls, as if reflecting the weight I carry inside.
"That's not true. You did it also for his good," the woman reassures me confidently, trying to give herself and me strength. Her voice carries support, but also an inner struggle between truth and forgiveness.
"What difference does it make? What matters is that it caused him pain, and even if I came back, it didn't go away," my voice shakes from bitterness and helplessness, as if each word cuts through my heart.
At that moment, Grandpa Vi comes back, having clearly heard my last phrase. His calm gaze and slight sadness seem to me like the only quiet island in this storm of emotions. Snatching a cocktail from him, I start drinking it greedily, trying to drown the anxiety and the emptiness spreading inside.
"Is it really that bad for you?" Vi asks, his tone soft, with hints of care, as if he wants to help but doesn't know how.
"Worse," Vera answers instead of me, her words like cold rain that chills to the bone. "You saw how he treats her."
I feel everything inside tightening with resentment and anxiety, but I decide not to answer. I feel uncomfortable talking to them about my personal life, especially when there are so many problems that seem too big to share. I just don't want to share my problems with them, fearing that they won't understand or will judge me.
"I'm going to the bathroom," I try to escape the emotional tension, from the looks and questions that feel too sharp.
"Wait, I'll go with you," the woman says, getting up behind me, her voice insistent, but care is heard in it.
"No, I'll be twenty-three this summer, I'm already a mom even. So don't follow me like I'm a child," I say sharply, feeling resentment rise along with irritation.
It hurts and annoys me that they obey Maxim, even though I've known them much longer. I feel like a misunderstood child, not allowed to show independence.
I go upstairs in search of the bathroom, feeling slight anxiety and inner tension growing with each step. The corridors are empty, and the silence around feels almost ominous against the loud music coming from the lower floors. I enter the bathroom, closing the door behind me, and after taking care of my business, I feel brief relief—but I already want to return.
Suddenly, a somewhat drunk guy appears in the corridor. His unsteady walk and the smell of alcohol are noticeable even before he comes up to me. I want to just pass by, ignoring him, to get back to my friends and forget about it. But the moment I walk past, he suddenly grabs me by the shoulders and presses me against the wall, hitting me sharply and painfully. My heart pounds so loudly in my chest that it feels like all the walls can hear it.
"Let me go!" I scream, feeling a panic flash of terror and helplessness.
I want to call for help, but I immediately understand—in this house, the music plays so loudly that even a scream will get lost in the noise. No one will hear. He breathes on me with the heavy, harsh smell of alcohol, as if trying to silence me.
"Why? Let's have fun," he rasps with a brazen smile, sending chills over my body.
"You don't know what fun is," I reply, trying to keep a trace of confidence in my voice. But fear overwhelms me, suffocates me, making every movement heavy and awkward. I try to push him, to free myself from his grip, but he presses against me even harder, like a huge, unstoppable force.
"Then teach me," he presses his whole body against me.
Cold and horror seize me when I feel the touch of his erect penis on my leg. It's unbearable; I feel a knot of fear twisting in my stomach, and my heart is about to burst from despair. I will remember this moment forever—that very horror of realizing that I'm trapped, that this crazy man can do anything he wants to me.
I start screaming and struggling again, desperately hoping someone will hear. But he grabs my hair and kisses me, trying to silence my scream. It's the most disgusting, revolting kiss in my life—a tongue invading my mouth, and the nauseating feeling that overwhelms me. Tears stream down my cheeks, bitter and hot, from despair and helplessness. I close my eyes, bracing for the worst, hopelessly realizing that I can't do anything now.
Suddenly, he lets me go—as if disappearing into the air. I stand, trembling, with a broken heart, when strange sounds reach me, soon turning into decisive footsteps. Someone suddenly hugs me, and opening my eyes, I see Vera and Viktor. Behind them, like a hero from a movie, stands Maxim. He fights my attacker, each of his strikes full of anger and determination.
The guy gets up, glances back for a second, and says:
"Take her out, I'll finish him myself."
Maxim continues delivering powerful blows, leaving the opponent no chance. The strikes are harsh but quick, and even when the enemy tries to fight back, he only suffers defeat under the onslaught of such force. Fear grips me—not for myself, but for Maxim. What if he goes too far? What if he ends up in prison because of this? This fear squeezes me like icy claws.
"Let him go, let him go," I say, breaking free from Vera's embrace, trying to stop what's happening.
I hug Maxim by the waist, trying to calm his anger, and I succeed. But he, turning to me with a cold gaze, stands up and slowly steps toward me.
"You're protecting him?" he asks loudly, his voice trembling with tension.
"No, Max, no. I just don't want you to kill him," I reply, trying not to show fear in front of his bloody face, broken fists, and burning eyes.
He stops, looking straight into my eyes. His tall, strong silhouette seems to emerge from the shadows, muscles tense under his skin, and dark hair, slightly tousled, emphasizes the severity of his expression. Max's gaze is full of determination and hidden pain, as if every movement is soaked in inner struggle.
"Are you afraid of me?" he asks quietly, almost whispering.
"Yes," I admit, feeling my body trembling from terror, which even his warm gaze cannot soothe.
"I'm not afraid of anything anymore," he says, and his voice carries pain and bitterness, "that's why I went through hell because of you. Hell without you."
I can't meet his gaze— that heavy, piercing look, which seems to penetrate straight into the soul and pull out the most intimate fears and doubts. My heart tightens from the tension, and I feel panic igniting inside me. Slowly stepping back, I feel like a prisoner of my own emotions, but then I suddenly dash away—like a coward running from inevitable pain and fear. Out into the street, where the cool evening air gently touches my skin, trying to wash away all the heaviness, all the pain and fear that have been hiding inside me for so long, like dark shadows preventing me from breathing. In this moment, the air feels like my only ally, bringing relief and hope for escape.
Vera rushes after me—not trying to stop me, she simply follows, patiently waiting for me to stop on my own and allow myself a moment to catch my breath. When I reach her, I can't hold back and hug her tightly, letting all the grief that has gripped me inside spill out. I cry on her shoulder, feeling the tears of bitterness and despair streaming down my cheeks, as if cleansing my soul of the accumulated pain.
"I… and he…" I whisper, breaking into sobs, my words tangled, unable to find the right ones to explain everything that torments me inside.
Vera, like the wise voice of reason, responds calmly:
"You both need to let go of the past and start building the future anew."
"He doesn't want to," I sniffle, feeling the weight of hopelessness pressing on my chest.
"I understand. You want to take a step forward, but he drags you two steps back," Vera says with sadness in her voice, as if fully understanding the complexity of my situation.
"And what am I supposed to do?" I ask timidly, searching her words for even a tiny spark of hope and support.
"I'm sorry, dear, but even I have no idea," Vera answers honestly, without any consolation. "I think about it: if I were in your place, and Viktor were in Maxim's. The picture is, of course, terrible, and I wouldn't want to be in your shoes. I honestly don't know what I would do."
"Do you think we have a chance at a normal relationship? Even just as friends?" I ask hopefully, clinging to the slightest chance of getting at least something good back.
"Yes, but only if he wants it," Vera says honestly, not trying to deceive me or comfort me with empty words. Her honesty is heavy, but it's precisely that which makes me reflect and find the strength to keep going.