What Just Happened?
The crash was not merely loud — it was sharp and furious, reminiscent of tearing metal. Just moments before, Olya was calmly brewing tea in the kitchen. She rushed out and froze at the edge of the living room. The atmosphere was thick, charged with a foreign anger.
Denis sat back in his gaming chair, facing away from her. Nevertheless, his tensed shoulders beneath the thin fabric of his t-shirt were clearly visible. On the massive TV screen, vivid red letters spelled “DEFEAT.” At his feet, on the light parquet floor, lay a black gaming joystick, resembling a lifeless futuristic beetle. However, Olya’s gaze swiftly skipped past these details and fixed on the heart of the space: her brand new coffee table.
She had purchased this table just two weeks ago after an extensive search for the perfect one. It featured a flawlessly smooth, glossy black surface that reflected the ceiling lamp like dark water. Now, this immaculate mirror was marred by an ugly dent right in the middle, with a delicate spiderweb of cracks radiating outward. The plastic projectile, hurled by her husband’s hand, had left a lasting mark.
“You lost!” Denis barked without turning around. His voice was hoarse, tight, as if he’d just shouted at full volume. He swayed slightly in the chair, catching his breath. For him, the episode was already over. Emotions had been vented and tension relieved. Time to start a new round.
“You lost?” Olya echoed blankly, her voice estranged even to herself. It held no anger or reproach, only a cold, ringing perplexity.
Slowly, she stepped into the room, carefully circumventing the fallen joystick like crossing a minefield. She touched the dent on the table with her fingertips. The glossy surface was cold under her hand, and the cracks felt like scars on living skin.
“So what? You decided to wreck the apartment over some toy? Denis, that table is only two weeks old!”
Finally, he chose to face her. His face remained flushed, and in his eyes was that muddled, stubborn expression Olya loathed most — the look of a spoiled child deprived of candy.
“I do what I want,” he sneered, eyes challenging hers. “It’s my apartment too.”
That statement hit Olya like a defibrillator. Her initial shock instantly turned into sharp, crystal-clear anger. All warmth and desire to forgive evaporated.
She straightened and met his gaze directly.
“Yours? Really? Tell me, which exact square centimeter here belongs to you? Perhaps this parquet floor that I paid for with my card? Or these walls, which I’ve been paying the mortgage for six years? Did you buy even a single nail for this place before breaking my furniture?”
Her tone was calm, devoid of shouting, but each word landed like a heavy stone in the room’s silence. Denis flinched as if struck. He was used to her emotional outbursts, but this icy, dissecting tone was unfamiliar and more piercing.
“Earn and buy first, then break! You haven’t purchased a thing for this apartment, nor the apartment itself, so now you will reimburse me for the damage!”
Allowing the ultimatum to sink in, she added:
- “Grab your phone right now, find the exact same table online, and order it at your expense.”
- “I don’t want to hear excuses like ‘later’ or ‘no money.’ Search immediately.”
- “Until you compensate me, consider yourself living here on credit.”
- “And God forbid I see one more scratch on my things.”
For several seconds, Denis was frozen, absorbing her words. The calm, almost businesslike ultimatum confounded his worldview. He anticipated tears, yelling, hysteria — the usual reactions he could manipulate or counter with aggression. Instead, her cold, matter-of-fact tone emptied the ground beneath him. His crooked smile was a defensive posture, an attempt to regain control.
“Are you serious? Making a fuss over a piece of wood?” He waved dismissively at the table, belittling the incident’s gravity. “Olya, snap out of it. It’s just an object. Things break; that’s life. You want me to run to the stores over this nonsense? I’m not ordering a new one. You’ll survive.”
Turning back to the screen, he made clear the discussion was over. His usual tactic: diminish the issue to triviality and barricade himself away. This time, it failed. Olya didn’t raise her voice; she refused to let him turn away.
“I will survive. Of course I will, Denis. Lately, I’ve been enduring a lot,” she stepped closer, her quiet tone growing even more dangerous. “But let’s call things what they are. This isn’t just some piece of wood. This coffee table cost twenty-two thousand rubles — my rubles.”
Denis flinched and finally looked at her. Her composure scared him more than any scream.
“And that,” Olya smoothly shifted her hand to the large TV still displaying ‘DEFEAT’, “is a plasma screen worth one hundred thirty thousand rubles — which you desperately wanted because ‘the color was off’ on the old one. I remember.”
“That thing under it,” she pointed at the gaming console, “is the newest generation console you said was essential. Forty-seven thousand. The gaming chair you’re slumping in, pushing down with your anger, cost thirty-five thousand. Should I continue? Headphones, mouse, that very t-shirt from the trendy shop where we just stopped by as a glance.”
She wasn’t complaining — she was reading a bill. Methodically and dispassionately, like an accountant auditing a failing firm. Each amount was a nail hammered into his swollen ego. Denis’s face flushed crimson.
“Enough! What have you done? Counting pennies? I never asked for…”
“You never asked?” For the first time, she allowed a slight smirk, and it only worsened Denis’s mood. “Of course not. You just wanted. You always want something, and for some reason I always pay. I’m not counting pennies. I’m totaling up. And the summary is this: you live in my apartment, eat food bought with my money, entertain yourself with equipment I purchased, and break my things when you’re in a bad mood. So yes, Denis, you will compensate for the damage — not just the table. From this moment, you owe me for everything: lodging, food, your right to breathe my air. Think of it as rent. The first payment is twenty-two thousand rubles, cash, for that table still in the kitchen.”
The financial tally, delivered with surgical precision, struck him — but not as she expected. Olya braced for argument, bargaining, or feeble explanations. Instead, Denis rose slowly. His anger and confusion vanished, replaced by a chilling, cold contempt. He took a few steps, stopped by the window, and stared outside, composing himself.
“You know, I remember what you were like,” he began quietly, not turning around. His calm, almost nostalgic tone was scarier than any shouting.
“You used to laugh — genuinely. We could stroll in the park for hours, and you didn’t care whether I had money for a café. You enjoyed cheap ice cream and silly jokes. Where did that girl go, Olya? What happened to her?”
He glanced around the room but looked past the objects, as if seeing through them.
“That girl was devoured by this apartment, these figures in your head. You stopped being a woman and turned into a money-making machine. No desires, only goals. No feelings, just reports. Do you think I wanted this plasma or chair? I wanted a wife, not a sponsor with an eternally tired, discontent face. You turned our relationship into a deal and now are surprised I don’t want to pay your bills.”
His words struck aimfully, attempting to paint her as a soulless monster and himself as a misunderstood romantic victim of her materialism. Trying to make her feel guilty not for being right, but for being strong.
Olya listened silently. Her expression remained unreadable. When he finished, she held a long pause, letting the accusations dissolve into nothingness. Then, with bitter irony, she nodded.
“You are right — completely right,” her voice as still as a frozen lake’s surface.
“That girl died the day she realized her ‘romantic’ couldn’t even afford the rent because he was ‘finding himself.’ She died listening to another brilliant startup idea that never left kitchen talk. She died when she saw her man was a grown child who had to be fed, dressed, and entertained because his delicate disposition couldn’t handle routine work.”
Stepping towards him, her eyes devoid of any warmth.
“Yes, I became like that because someone had to calculate how much your ‘creative search’ costs. Yes, I’m a machine — working ten hours a day so you’d have a roof and toys to break furniture over. The funniest part, Denis? You say you wanted a wife, not a sponsor — but you gladly use all the ‘sponsor’s’ services. So stop playing the wounded innocent. You’re not a victim, just an expensive, ungrateful project — my worst startup failure.”
The words “worst startup failure” hung between them. That was the end. No more arguments, no scolding. Denis stared at her, his eyes void of anger or resentment — just emptiness. Naming him that seemed not only an insult but an erasure of his identity and justifications. He hadn’t lost a game; he had lost this verbal duel—defeated on financial, moral, and personal fronts. Now, like the “defeat” on the screen, only a final, meaningless display remained.
Without a word, he passed by, barely touching but forcing her back a step. His silence spoke louder than a scream. She heard him enter the bedroom, then the brief, harsh drawer scrape of her jewelry box — the safe stash of emergency money, meant for illness, unexpected job loss, or a “rainy day” that always seemed hypothetical. He knew about it.
Returning to the living room, he held a single five-thousand-ruble bill between two fingers, treating it as something precious yet alien he was about to desecrate. Facing Olya, a faint, crooked smile crossed his lips.
“You’re right. I’m a failed project. Failed projects must be shut down and written off,” he said with cruel calm. “So I’m going to waste some of your losses — on drinks or a new game to pass the time while I keep searching for myself. I think I deserve a break from your accounting.”
He waited, expecting a scream, a snatch for the money, any emotional response to reclaim some control. But Olya just stared back, her face a mask. Silently she tracked him to the door. Heard his footsteps, the lock click shut. The door thudded closed.
In the ensuing silence, Olya stood a moment longer, tuning into her own ringing ears. Then, without unnecessary movement, she began her task.
She approached the TV and methodically unplugged the gaming console’s cables: power cord, HDMI, charger cable. Neatly coiling the wires, she tucked the console under her arm and carried two joysticks — including the one that scarred her table.
Opening the door, she placed everything on the stairwell mat near the elevator, then returned. Gathering all the game boxes he had so carefully collected, she stacked them next to the console. Next, his prized gaming headset followed. Finally, the gaming chair — heavy and awkward — took effort to move through the doorway. She set it firmly to complete the display: a gamer’s altar exiled from the temple.
Back inside, she glanced at the now open living room space. It felt bigger, with more air. Locking the door, she secured both locks. Taking her phone, she called a locksmith to come urgently. Then she changed the Wi-Fi password to “MyRules.”
When Denis returned an hour later, whistling and feeling victorious in his small war, he found his throne, weapons, and worlds abandoned on the landing — like discarded roadside furniture. Bewildered, he stared at the setup, tugged the door handle — locked. His key turned uselessly; the bolt held firm. He pressed the doorbell button — silence. He froze, observing his exiled sanctuary and the impenetrable door that had never been his, even for an inch.
After banging on the door for a long while, Olya did not respond. Eventually, he gathered his belongings, called a taxi, and left for his mother’s — nowhere else to go. Days later, after futile attempts to reach his wife, he received a divorce notification. His defeat in the game called “life.”
Key Insight: This story underscores the deep fractures that financial imbalance, disrespect, and unresolved conflicts can inflict on personal relationships. When one partner shoulders all responsibility and the other neglects accountability, the fallout can be devastating.
The sequence of events highlights the importance of mutual respect, honest communication, and shared responsibility in maintaining harmony at home. Material possessions and money, while significant, symbolize deeper emotional investments and relational dynamics that, if ignored, may lead to irreparable damage.
Ultimately, this narrative reminds us that repairing a relationship requires more than replacing broken things; it demands genuine understanding, compassion, and accountability from both partners.