I turn off the alarm and start getting dressed. The room is quiet, only the soft breathing of sleeping Mary breaking the silence. She sleeps for a long time, wrapped in a soft blanket, and I can leave her peacefully — without worry or hurry.
Dressed, I order a taxi. My heart beats a little faster than usual — ahead of me is a meeting I both expect and fear. The car arrives quickly, and I get in, trying not to look out the window to avoid being flooded by memories. When the taxi turns onto the familiar street, my breath catches. I haven't been here for so many years, but everything seems frozen in time. Buildings, sidewalks, even the smell of the night air — nothing has changed. The dormitory stands in the same place, as if waiting for me.
I go up to the third floor, step by step overcoming not only the stairs but my own anxiety. Dima is already waiting for me — just like in my memory, but with a slight shadow of adulthood in his eyes. We hug — a tight hug, with warmth, with the pain of years lived, silently passing to each other everything that cannot be said in words.
"Where is Maxim?" I ask, my voice trembling with worry.
"On the roof," he answers calmly, as if it is an ordinary thing.
"What?! And you let him go there alone?" I exclaim, horror piercing my chest like an icy needle. The scariest thoughts flash through my mind, my heart tightening in panic.
"He said he won't do anything until you come," he shrugs, his gaze heavy, as if trying to believe his own words.
"Take me there. I don't know how to get up," I ask desperately.
Dima nods and, without saying another word, leads me forward, through narrow corridors, like through a labyrinth of memories.
"Katrin?" he suddenly says when my hand is already on the cold metal door handle that leads to the roof.
"Yes, Dima," I reply, looking at him. His face shows so much pain, more than seems possible for one person.
"While you were gone... he suffered a lot. Don't break his heart again, please," his voice is full of sincerity, almost broken, like a person watching someone else's soul collapse.
"Maxim brought me back, and now I'm not going anywhere. Unless he himself drives me away," I smile weakly, trying to instill in him the confidence I am only beginning to feel.
He says nothing. He just looks at me one more time — long, like a farewell — and leaves silently, leaving me alone in front of the very door behind which beats another heart, full of wounds and pain, like mine.
Opening the door, I find myself on the roof. The cold wind hits my face, tearing into my lungs and making it hard to breathe. Near the very edge stands Maxim. His silhouette seems lonely and lost against the shimmering night city. He drinks something from a bottle, and from his posture, it is clear — he is in pain. Very much, at least inside.
I approach him carefully, trying not to make a single sound. Every step is hard — not from physical fatigue, but from fear. I am afraid to scare him, as if he were a wild animal standing on the edge.
"You came?" he asks without even turning. His voice is hoarse, broken. I freeze with fear, as if my feet are stuck to the ground. My chest tightens, as if a stone has been placed there.
"Yes, Maxim. I am here," I answer, barely holding back a tremble. My voice is quieter than I want, but there is so much hope in it that it seems to echo in the darkness.
"You're late," he says in a hoarse voice, and something inside breaks at those words.
"Sorry... I ran here as fast as I could," I apologize, feeling my eyes fill with tears. I don't know what is worse — being late or being completely unnecessary.
"You're late," he repeats again. "By three and a half years," the boy speaks in riddles. His words cut deeper than blades. Words full of resentment, bitterness, and something else — something I cannot immediately recognize.
"Why? What happened then?" I try to understand what he means. My heart beats too fast, my breathing becomes uneven. I want to hug him, stop this flow of pain, but I don't know if it is still possible.
"Come to me," Maxim asks, and his voice softens a little, but the abyss still echoes in it.
As I do what he wants, Maxim puts the bottle on the floor. He climbs onto the parapet. My eyes widen in horror. This is the moment I fear.
"No, Max! Please, don't jump!" I scream. My throat tightens, my voice breaking. Panic rises with such force that I cannot hold back tears.
"Come to me, Katrin," he calmly asks, extending his hand to me. I approach him and stand, looking up at him. The wind blows his hair; he is like a statue on the edge of the world, and it seems that if the wind blows harder — he will disappear.
"Give me your hand and climb up to me."
"I'm scared," I admit, feeling my fingers tremble. Fear is so strong that it paralyzes every movement.
"Don't be afraid. We won't fall," he promises me. But fear does not leave. It lives in me, breathes beside me, whispers terrible things.
Fortunately, the parapet is wide enough for both of us. I stretch out my hand, and the boy helps me climb onto it. His touch is firm, confident. It warms me, despite the cold.
"Look down. Don't be afraid, I am holding you, so you won't fall."
Maxim holds me by the waist firmly, and I am not as scared. I close my eyes, gathering courage, and after a minute I do it. From the view so high above, my head spins, but I don't fall, because my beloved holds me.
Part of me is afraid that he has called me here to push me. This horrible thought pierces my heart like a needle. But I try to push it away, understanding that love for me must remain in Max. The old Maxim would never hurt me. Also, I don't think that even if we are in conflict, he would deprive his daughter of her mother. This thought gives me at least a bit of support in the chaos of what is happening. It saves me from the madness slowly creeping in this silence above the abyss.
"Aren't I the one afraid of heights in our pair?" he asks with a light, barely noticeable smile, but in his eyes dances sadness, like city lights reflected in a puddle after rain. This sadness is not just a shadow on his face — it is alive, trembling, as if sorrow has long settled in his heart and only now, on the edge of the abyss, makes itself known.
"After Mary was born, I became afraid of her," I confess quietly, as if revealing a long-hidden secret. My words sound like a whisper breaking the fragile silence between two people sharing memories. "Although before that, I liked climbing skyscrapers."
My heart tightens like it's hit by an icy wind, because in this simple phrase there is a whole life—a life in which the joy of parenthood mixes with anxiety, constant vigilance, fear for a tiny heart. From that day on, I no longer belong to myself—I am entirely hers. Even the sky seems too dangerous to me.
"Did you see down there?" Maxim asks, pointing at the cliff just a step away from us.
"Asphalt," I reply, the first thing that comes to mind. My mind clings to reality like a handrail on a shaking train, refusing to slide into the panic of what this conversation is leading to.
"Right. I should have been lying there three years ago."
I shiver. Cold spreads to the tips of my fingers. Ice pierces my chest; my breathing falters. Instantly, a horrifying picture appears in my imagination—his body, broken, lifeless, lying on cold asphalt like a forgotten person whose story was never finished. I cling to him—not with reason, but with my body, with my whole being. An instinct, primal and strong, pulls me toward him, like a drowning person to air. If he didn't hold me tight, I would fall—not physically, but with my soul.
"Did anyone tell you about this?" His question sounds distant, as if from another time, another universe where everything turned out differently.
"Yes… Vi said you wanted to end your life," I admit, as if squeezing a stone out of myself. The words burn my throat like tears I didn't shed in time. Every syllable feels like a wound.
"Why 'said'?" he asks with faint caution, as if afraid to hear the answer.
"No… He only said that when you drank, you lost control and wanted to end your life," I confess openly, unwilling to hide anything anymore. My heart pounds like a warning bell—loud, painful, alive. If not now—then when?
"Because of you. You gave me paradise, and leaving—you threw me into hell."
I close my eyes. Tears flow on their own, my soul crying along with me. His words are like a blade—cold, precise, painful. Straight into the heart.
"If Dima hadn't called the authorities and pulled me out of there, I would be lying there," he continues. His voice grows deeper, heavier—as if each sound carries the weight of a lost life. He is not speaking—he is confessing his own destruction.
"You brought me more suffering than joy."
"I didn't want to…" I whisper, feeling shame and pain intertwine into one. "I thought that if I left, you would hate me and forget. You would go on with your life…"
I want him to understand… even a little. For even one cell of his soul to hear my regret.
"Do you think I could have lived happily without you? Knowing you—could I have been with someone else?"
"I hoped… I didn't know you were so attached to me."
Back then, leaving, disappearing, protecting him from me seemed right. But now I understand how painfully wrong I was.
"Attached? No, that's not the word. My world doesn't just revolve around you—it is you. Katrin, by leaving, you deprived me of life. Without you, I have no life."
"That's not true… What about studies, the club, Vi, and your business? And the company work?" I remind him, as if trying to prove: he's strong, he managed. "You kept living without me."
Maxim laughs. But there is nothing in this laughter but bitterness. Laughter of someone who no longer believes in comfort.
"That's not life. That's survival without you. And as for what you listed… Do you know why I bought the club and named it that?" He squints. Something flashes in his eyes—pain, memory, resentment.
"Honestly… I have no idea," I answer, genuinely surprised. My heart freezes for a moment.
"To be closer to you. I made it so you would like it. That's why I brought you there. I wanted you to see it and be proud of me," he blurts out.
And in these words is everything—love, despair, tenderness, longing. He presses me to himself tighter, as if wanting to absorb me, never let go, never lose me again. But even in this embrace there is no pain—only longing and love that hasn't faded, no matter what.
"I am proud of you. Truly proud," I say, pouring everything I feel into the words. "You're the best in the university , you have your business and new friends…"
"Acquaintances," he quietly corrects, almost soundlessly, as if he has long accepted it.
"And you've made great strides in your father's business. You've become what I wanted. You're amazing, Max," I praise him, because he truly deserves it. Every word is sincere, from the heart.
"What's all that worth if you weren't here all this time?" he shouts, and in this scream is everything: pain, despair, unbearable emptiness. "I don't need any of it. I only wanted you!"
It is a cry. A soul's cry, tearing from the depths of his broken heart.
"Forgive me…" I whisper. Tears flow endlessly now. They are not just moisture—they are pain, repentance, hope for forgiveness. I don't try to wipe them away. I don't want to. I want only one thing—for him to forgive me. To understand. To believe in us again.