Chapter 1
700words
Through the bedroom door, intimate sounds faintly escaped.
I stood frozen in place, my mind completely blank.
I dared not approach, dared not make a sound. Even my tears fell silently.
Yuri and I had been together since high school.
Back then, he'd dash across the entire city checking bakeries just because I said: "Today is my birthday."
It wasn't actually my birthday at all.
When he returned, his ears were red from the cold, his speech slurred, yet he still smiled: "I know. But if it makes you happy, every day can be your birthday."
From then on, every year on that day, I'd receive a cake.
This year, I was away on a business trip.
I waited as usual, but received nothing.
I thought he was just too busy and forgot.
Until I secretly returned home and heard the sounds from inside.
I fled in panic.
I sat downstairs all night. The early autumn wind carried a chill, creeping through the cracks of the stairway windows, seeping coldness into my very bones.
As dawn approached, my phone screen lit up.
Message from Yuri: "Honey, are you done with overtime? What do you want for breakfast? I'll bring it for you."
His tone was familiar and natural, just like countless mornings before.
I stared at those words, my eyes dry and painful.
A thought flashed through my foggy, sleepless mind.
Could I be hallucinating from working too much overtime?
What I heard and thought last night was just a nightmare.
When I turned the key in the lock, the apartment was completely silent.
The air was filled with the overpowering scent of lemon freshener. The living room was tidy, the bedroom door open, the sheets perfectly smooth without a single wrinkle.
He was asleep on the sofa, half his face sunk into the cushion.
His features were still handsome, but the youthful naivety was gone, replaced by the weariness carved by the passing years. Even in sleep, his brows were unconsciously furrowed.
I squatted beside him watching when tears unexpectedly fell, dropping onto the back of his hand.
He woke up, reached out drowsily, pulled me into his arms, and said in a voice still husky from sleep: "Why are you crying? Is work too exhausting?"
His embrace was still so warm, his words still so thoughtful.
I didn't ask, didn't mention a single word about it.
But from that day on, I seemed to have fallen ill.
I frantically searched through his phone, checked the collars of his shirts, sniffed the scent on his coat. Holding my breath, trying to find that invisible "her" from those cold objects.
Before, friends would say we were a perfect match.
He was a steady doctor, and I was a decisive business executive.
He used to often invite me to join his private gatherings, but eight out of ten times I was busy and declined without even looking up.
Later, he stopped asking.
Now, I forced myself to put down the half-finished presentation and took the initiative to ask him: "Will you take me out this weekend?"
He looked somewhat surprised, then smiled: "Okay."
He took me to his department's gathering. The private room was noisy. He thoughtfully pulled out a chair for me, served food and poured water, impeccable in every way.
Until that girl came in.
Very young, with a ponytail, her eyes curved when she smiled, sunny and innocent.
As soon as she entered, someone eagerly offered her the empty seat next to Yuri.
She didn't decline, sat down gracefully, her gaze casually sweeping over Yuri, carrying a glint of light.
Someone poured her a drink, and she wrinkled her nose, complaining softly: "God, this burns!"
Yuri, sitting next to her, took her glass with practiced ease and pushed his untouched drink toward her. His voice wasn't loud, but fell clearly into my ears: "Here, this one's mixed with Sprite. Much sweeter."
That gesture was too practiced, that reminder too intimate.
The room seemed to fall silent for a moment, as colleagues exchanged knowing glances.
I sat frozen, my nails digging deep into my palms.
