Lena stayed in possession of the city

– Hello.

He froze for a second, looking at her.

Lena felt it almost with her skin—this short, involuntary glance of a man who actually saw a woman.

Not a function. Not a status.

Her.

“Come in,” he said quietly.

The evening was simple. A few friends, homemade pie, small talk. But Lena found herself laughing genuinely, effortlessly, for the first time in a long time.

She sat by the window with a mug of hot wine in her hands and listened to Ilya tell a funny story about a patient who called an ambulance because of a “near-death situation,” but it turned out to be just heartburn.

Everyone laughed.

But Lena wasn’t looking at the others.

She watched the way he spoke. How he sometimes tiredly rubbed the bridge of his nose. How he listened attentively to his interlocutor without interrupting. How he carefully adjusted the blanket on the shoulders of his elderly neighbor, Svetlana.

And in her chest, slowly, almost painfully, a feeling grew that she was afraid to name.

Later, when the guests began to leave, Svetlana went to see someone downstairs. The apartment became unusually quiet.

Snow was swirling outside the window.

Lena was standing at the coat rack, putting on her coat, when Ilya suddenly said:

– You are a very sad person, Len.

She froze.

— Is it really that noticeable?

He smiled slightly.

– Only to those who know what it looks like.

Silence fell between them.

Not awkward. Not empty.

Dangerous.

Lena felt her heart beating somewhere high, almost in her throat.

“I have to go,” she said quickly.

Ilya nodded silently, but when she had already grabbed the door handle, he suddenly said:

– You don’t have to live as if everything is already over.

She rode home on a nearly empty bus. The city floated past the window—wet, sleepy, blurred by the light from the shop windows.

She repeated his words to herself over and over again.

And for the first time in a long time, she felt more than just scared.

She felt ashamed of how little she allowed herself to be alive.

We didn’t sleep at home.

The light in the hallway was jarring as soon as Lena opened the door. Dmitry was sitting in the kitchen, wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants, his elbows propped on the table. An empty mug and ashtray sat in front of him, though he rarely smoked—only when he was nervous.

He didn’t turn around right away.

“Did you help for long?” he asked calmly.

Too calm.

Lena slowly took off her boots. Her heart was beating somewhere under her ribs in short, heavy bursts.

— Sveta had guests. I was delayed.

– It’s clear.

Silence spread through the apartment like cold water. The hum of the refrigerator drifted from the room, and outside the window, a billboard creaked in the wind.

Dmitry finally looked up.

— Was Ilya there?

The question sounded casual, but something inside Lena clenched.

– Yes. It’s his birthday.

He nodded. Very slowly.

— Sure.

And he fell silent again.

Lena suddenly realized she was almost relieved to be expecting a scandal. A scream. Jealousy. At least some proof that there was still a living connection between them. But Dmitry looked at her with the weary wariness of a man checking the numbers in a report.

– Dim…

“Just no drama, okay?” he interrupted. “I was just asking.”

She walked up to the table.

– You don’t believe me?

– Should I?