The message came early Saturday. Alina had just poured hot water over the coffee grounds when her phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. Damian was still in bed—he liked to sleep in on weekends.
She grabbed the phone with one hand while reaching for sugar with the other.
“I’m nearby. Just missed you. How have you been?”
The spoon slipped and clattered against the mug. Alina sank into a chair. Denis. After all this time. Two years, and yet her hands shook.
“Alina, everything okay?” Damian’s groggy voice echoed from the hallway.
“Dropped the spoon!” she called back, deleting the message quickly.
But she couldn’t delete the thoughts. The rest of the day passed like fog. Damian suggested they finally go buy those curtains they’d talked about. Alina agreed, picked out a fabric at the store, nodded when asked—but her mind was far.
“You’re quiet today,” Damian said at dinner. “Everything alright?”
“Just tired. A tough manuscript.”
He reached for her hand.
“How about a trip to the cottage tomorrow? Some fresh air, grilled vegetables, a break?”
Alina looked at him—kind eyes, warmth in every wrinkle. A good man. Steady. Caring. So why did she feel so hollow?
Monday, she wrote to Denis. Simply: “Can we meet?” He answered quickly, as if expecting it. They settled on Wednesday.
Alina hesitated all week. Sometimes she resolved not to go. Then convinced herself—just to talk. To get closure, as her friend Irina always said.
Damian didn’t notice—or chose not to. He made dinner, talked about vacation plans.
“Maybe Crete? Or Tuscany? You’ve always wanted to see Florence.”
“Let’s talk later,” she murmured.
Wednesday came. She told Damian she’d be late—urgent work. He kissed her forehead.
“Don’t stay too long. I’ll make your favorite pasta.”
Denis picked the spot. A little place in a side street. Alina arrived first, sat by the window. She ordered a coffee but didn’t touch it.
He walked in ten minutes later. Still had the same sharp features, slate-colored eyes, that constant shadow of a beard. A few grays now.
“Hey,” he said, sliding into the seat across.
“Hey.”
They sat in silence. She played with her napkin; he tapped on the table.
“You look good,” he said eventually.
“So do you.”
“No, I don’t. I’ve been drinking too much.”
“Why are you here?”
He shrugged.
“Business. And… I wanted to see you.”
“Two years too late.”
“Alina, please. I’m not here to argue.”
She wanted to leave. She should have. But she stayed. Watched him order whiskey at 3 p.m.
“So, tell me about your life,” he said.
“Working. Translating. Living with Damian.”
“The IT guy?”
“Yes.”
“Nice guy?”
“Very.”
“Do you love him?”
She stayed quiet. Denis gave a half-smile.
“Thought so.”
“That’s not your business.”
“It is. You’re my business.”
“You ended that business. All of it.”
“I know.”
The simplicity of it broke her. No excuses. No blaming.
They talked for an hour. About trivial things. But beneath it, something deeper stirred.
“I should go,” she said as dusk fell.
“I’ll walk you.”
“No need.”
He came anyway. They stopped at the metro.
“Alina…”
“Don’t. Whatever you’re about to say—don’t.”
He nodded, but then hugged her. Tight. Familiar. She didn’t resist.
Home was minutes away. But she took the metro in the opposite direction. Rode aimlessly for an hour.
Damian waited in the kitchen. Pasta on the stove.
“Hungry?”
“No. Just tired.”
“Alina… did you see him?”
She could’ve lied. But she nodded.
Damian sat. Hands over face.
“And now what?”
“I don’t know. I thought I hated him. I thought it was done. But when I saw him…”
“And? Remembered the betrayal? The nights you cried?”
“All of it. But…”
“But you love him.”
She held his hands.
“You’re everything he isn’t. You’re peace. But…”
“But you love him,” Damian said again. “And you know he’ll hurt you. Yet you’ll go.”
“I don’t want to. But I can’t not want.”
Damian stood, paced.
“What do you want me to say? Forget it? Keep going like nothing happened?”
“I expect nothing. Just… forgive me.”
“For seeing him? Or leaving me?”
She said nothing. He exhaled.
“I won’t stop you. But I won’t be here when it falls apart again.”
The next day she texted Denis. They met. Went to his apartment. It was fast. Desperate.
“I’m ending it with Damian,” she said.
“For me?”
“For myself.”
“Move in with me.”
“You live in St. Petersburg.”
“Then I’ll stay here.”
She knew it was a lie. But she wanted to believe.
When she returned, Damian was drinking tea.
He saw her face. Knew.
“I’ll pack tomorrow,” he said.
“Damian…”
“No. I could forgive mistakes. But you chose pain. And I won’t stay waiting for you to come back wounded.”
He left without drama. Just took what was his. Left the key.
A week later, Denis moved in. The beginning was fire—love, arguments, passion. But soon, jealousy. Drinking. Resentment.
“You miss him?”
“Stop, Denis.”
“You came to me. Remember that.”
One night he smashed a vase. Accused her of cheating. It was too much.
“I was wrong,” she whispered. “You were fire. But I need warmth.”
“You knew. And still came.”
“I did. And now I’m leaving.”
She packed. Ignored his shouting. Called a taxi.
It was cold. Snow falling. She glanced up at the window that once was home. Maybe someone else lived there now. Someone wiser.
The taxi came. She gave Irina’s address.
“Chilly tonight,” said the driver.
“Yes. Very.”
The city blurred past. Denis was somewhere behind. Damian had moved on. And she? She was learning. To choose peace. To stop burning for borrowed warmth.
The snow kept falling. Soft. Silent. Like a beginning.
