Lena stayed in possession of the city

It was said quietly, without malice. And that’s precisely why it hit harder.

Lena felt resentment rising inside her—viscous, heavy, and long-standing, even though their marriage had not even been six months old.

– Have I ever lied to you?

He looked away.

And this short gesture turned out to be more terrible than the answer.

Little things she’d never noticed before suddenly surfaced in her memory. His habit of placing his phone face down. His constant late hours at work. His indifference to her—not even as a woman, but as a person. As if he’d always lived somewhere else.

“Do you have someone?” she breathed out, unexpectedly to herself.

Dmitry raised his head.

His face showed neither indignation nor surprise, but the irritation of a man who had been forced to discuss an unpleasant everyday topic.

– Oh my God, Lena… What nonsense?

– Then why are you looking at me as if I’m bothering you?

He stood up from the table abruptly.

“Because I come home and want peace and quiet! I work all day! I have no time for this digging into feelings!”

“And I don’t care about them!” Her voice trembled. “Because I can’t do this anymore!”

The words hung in the air.

Dmitry looked at her for a long time, as if seeing her for the first time. Then he tiredly ran his hand over his face.

– And what do you want from me?

Lena opened her mouth and couldn’t find anything to say.

Because it wasn’t about kissing anymore. Not about tenderness. Not even about love.

She suddenly realized with frightening clarity: around this man, she was constantly forced to diminish herself. To make her thoughts quieter, her desires more modest, her soul more inconspicuous. As if her real life was too loud for their apartment.

“I don’t know,” she whispered.

Dmitry chuckled briefly.

– That’s exactly it.

He went into the bedroom, leaving her alone in the kitchen.

Lena slowly sank into the chair.

Snow was falling outside—large, wet, lazy. It stuck to the glass and melted immediately, leaving transparent trails like fingerprints.

She hardly slept that night.

And in the morning she had a strange dream.

It’s as if she’s standing in a long library corridor. The shelves rise, disappearing into the darkness. The books around her are old, dusty, with blank covers and no titles. And somewhere ahead, she can hear footsteps.

She follows the sound.

Slowly.

Barefoot on the cold floor.

And then he sees the door.

White.

Completely alien among the bookshelves.

A warm golden light pours from underneath it.

Lena reaches for the handle and wakes up.

Her heart was pounding so hard, as if she was actually running somewhere.

Dmitry was snoring nearby.

She stood up carefully and walked to the window.

The city was still asleep. Early morning left the streets defenseless: empty of people, empty of noise, empty of the usual daytime mask. The streetlights went out one by one.

And suddenly Lena caught herself thinking that made her feel both scared and relieved.

She was no longer afraid of losing this marriage.

It was as if something inside her had already made a choice before her mind had time to acknowledge it.

Over the next few days, Dmitry became more attentive.

So much so that it was scary.

He started asking her how her day was. He bought her favorite pastries from the bakery near the library. He even hugged her once in the kitchen—awkwardly, almost mechanically, like someone repeating a gesture they’d observed in someone else’s life.

Lena didn’t feel love in this.

Fear.