He was overwhelmed by a deep fear that he might not recognize her anymore. Fifteen years—far from trivial, it represents an entire lifetime, compressed within the span separating yesterday from today. The last time Artyom had seen Lika, both were fifteen years old—awkward adolescents trembling with unspoken feelings and surging hormones. Now, each had turned thirty. Artyom had become a successful co-owner of a restaurant chain in Moscow, his gaze bearing a subtle fatigue beneath the gleam of luxurious wristwatches. And what of her? What fate had befallen her in this forsaken provincial town, seemingly frozen in a languid, swampy time?
“Surely she has three lazy children, perpetually dirty floors, and a husband drowned in alcohol, staring blankly at the TV,” Artyom mused bitterly, unable to comprehend the source of his own spite. “Her eyes tired and extinguished, hands chapped red from freezing water.”
Why did such resentment emerge toward her? It was an utterly irrational, childlike anger. After all, it was he who had cowardly fled, succumbing to parental pressure. He severed all ties and ceased responding to her timid letters, sealed with stamps and scented faintly with cheap wildflower perfume. He sought to erase her memory, drowning it in London pub alcohol and the arms of fleeting girlfriends. Yet, deep inside, he was angry at her—for allowing him to leave, for not screaming or clinging, but merely watching him go with those vast, tear-filled gray eyes that swallowed his guilt.
They greeted him at his former school like a Hollywood star. Shoulders patted, shouts of “Artyomka!” ringing out, elbows nudging him to share tales of “decaying West” and Moscow nightlife. He felt genuine discomfort under this suffocating admiration. His eyes swept the crowd searching for her face—which he failed to find. He thought with relief, “Forget it. What foolish nostalgia is this for a moth-eaten past? Why would I need Lika, the provincial recluse destined for misery?”
Then, unexpectedly, he saw her.
She entered the assembly hall slightly tardy, glancing around with the same unsure demeanor as fifteen years before. Inside Artyom, everything flipped; his world tumbled into an abyss.
Lika bore those same incredibly delicate, almost fragile hands with pale blue veins tracing a lace pattern at her wrists. Her sharp, fox-like face remained unchanged, with impossibly large eyes. Her light, fluffy hair was no longer cropped into a dandelion puff but gathered loosely into a messy ponytail, with silky strands cascading down her neck. Although she wore a simple calico dress, it fit her as if crafted by a master couturier especially for her. She appeared far from a woman broken by life with three children. Instead, she was a precise, mature incarnation of the girl he remembered.
A vivid memory surfaced, as if from yesterday. They had stood by a school window while the first snow swirled outside. Artyom admired her profile, watching snowflakes melt in her hair, and unconsciously whispered, “How beautiful Lika is…”
“You say that!”
His friend Pashka Gubanov, a sturdy young man with a perpetual smirk, scoffed and slapped him on the back: “Beauty? Look at Arzhanova—that’s beauty! Long braids down her back, skin like a peach, flushing softly. Yours is pale, pimpled, and scruffy like a moth.”
Indeed, Lika’s cheeks bore a sprinkling of tiny golden freckles and a few pimples that Artyom found endearing marks of youth. Yet under his friend’s mocking gaze, he shrank and muttered, “Yeah, maybe you’re right…”
How could he approach her? How to start a conversation? At fifteen, the world split into two irreconcilable camps: boys and girls. Any careless word or look could ignite endless teasing and gossip. Even Arzhanova, the school beauty, would screech about “bride and groom.”
Fortunately, Pashka pitched a saving idea: he invited half the class to his birthday party. Though his family’s apartment was cramped, this only enhanced the lively, cozy chaos that teenagers cherished. Pashka’s mother performed charades with them, followed by raucous battles on newly gifted Transformers games—Artyom had gifted the largest leader of the Autobots.
- Artyom asked his mother if he could invite the whole class.
- His mother panicked at the thought of fitting forty guests.
- His father advised setting up a buffet so kids could eat and roam freely.
- Family relatives would be hosted the next day with a proper meal.
Artyom anxiously feared Lika’s refusal. He knew she would lack money for a gift—everyone did. She came from a large family, with a librarian mother and a father who was a constant patient in a detox center. Sweets were for big holidays only, and her jackets and jeans were hand-me-downs from older sisters. So, bracing himself, he approached her desk and blurted, blushing fiercely, “Listen, Lika, I have a favor. Could you redraw a picture for me… as a gift, for a record cover?”
Lika gazed silently. Artyom hurried to explain: a dog had torn his favorite Beatles album cover, and the replacement was plain, dull, making the record less enjoyable to listen to.
“Don’t you have a tape recorder?” she asked skeptically, knowing that Artyom’s father was a restaurateur and their home was equipped with all the latest tech.
“We do, but I love vinyl. The crackle of the needle—it’s atmospheric. So, will you draw it?”
Lika, an excellent artist whose works adorned school and district exhibitions, paused, then nodded, “Alright. I’ll do it.”
At the party, while half the guests battled fiercely in Mortal Kombat and others screamed watching “Pulp Fiction,” Artyom led Lika, Mishka, and some girls into his room. Proudly, he showed off an old, German tube amplifier inherited from his grandfather, with speakers hidden in corners for immersive sound.
Initially bored by the record player and vinyl, Lika suddenly froze when the needle touched the disc and the first notes of “Yesterday” filled the space. Sitting upright with folded hands, she stared into a single point as though entranced. She wasn’t merely listening; she absorbed every sound with her entire being. Mishka soon lost interest and dashed to play games; the girls created an impromptu disco. Guests flooded in, dancing, laughing, shouting. Yet Lika remained perched on the bed’s edge, motionless, carried far away by the music composed years ago by four men from Liverpool.
A few days later, during recess, she approached him: “Artyom, may I listen to that record again? I promise to be very careful, honest Pioneer’s oath!” Her eyes pleaded so earnestly he nearly grabbed her hand to take her home immediately.
“It belongs to my dad,” he lied suddenly. “He doesn’t let anyone touch them. But you’re welcome to come by and listen whenever you want.”
She shyly lowered her eyes: “It feels awkward.”
“Awkward is putting on your pants backwards,” he retorted mimicking his father. “Visiting friends is convenient. So come.”
Thus began their peculiar, quiet friendship. Initially, music formed its foundation. They spent hours in his room, debating over albums and songs deemed best. Eventually, music became background to conversations about books, movies, the universe’s nature, and human loneliness. Lika spoke sparingly, but sharply, impressing Artyom with her wit and subtle humor.
“Artyom, be honest,” his mother inquired suspiciously about his new companion. “What do you see in her? She barely talks, just stares and nods. It might stroke your ego, but it’s excessive. How could you connect? She’s from a different world! You should have enrolled in the lyceum as I suggested!”
“Mom, I don’t want to travel across the city,” he complained. “The teachers here are good. Even the English tutor praised my pronunciation.”
His father reacted philosophically, “Let the boy be. Let the girl mesmerize his head — it’s just his age.”
“I don’t mesmerize!” Artyom protested, cheeks aflame.
This dialogue granted him nearly a year of relative freedom. Though his mother rolled her eyes when Lika visited, she refrained from further lyceum talks. But in ninth grade, everything collapsed instantly. One day his mother entered unannounced, catching Artyom studying Lika’s freckles closely and examining her figure.
Lika blushed deeply and fled home. His mother said nothing. When his father returned that evening, silence filled the house until three days later he summoned Artyom.
“Pack your bags, son. We’re moving to Moscow.”
“To Moscow?” Artyom was stunned.
“Yes. I’m expanding my business, opening a new restaurant. You’ll need to prepare; admission competition’s fierce. I arranged lyceum and tutors.”
“I won’t go,” Artyom declared defiantly.
“Where else would you go?” his father asked calmly.
There was nowhere for him to go. When Lika learned, she cried silently, no hysteria, making his heart ache. He vowed to finish school and return for her, to whisk her away to glamorous Moscow life. But she sighed quietly, with weary adult resignation: “You won’t come back. Never.”
As a farewell gift, he gave her the very vinyl, “All You Need Is Love,” for which she had drawn a new cover—the record accompanying their first clumsy, eager kiss.
He understood this Moscow plan was his mother’s doing. He burned with rage at her and the silent consent of his father. Therefore, when a new Moscow friend planned to study in London, Artyom confronted his father:
“I want to go to London too.”
His mother wept, wrung her hands, claiming he would be lost alone. She feared losing him like his elder brother who died in infancy. Yet Artyom took dark delight watching her fear.
In London, he explored Beatles landmarks, began smoking Camels, adopted a rebellious mohawk, and swapped girlfriends as often as socks. He desperately tried to erase the scent of wildflowers and the girl with enormous eyes. He selected girls the opposite of Lika—vibrant, loud, uninhibited—but quickly grew weary of their artificiality.
This self-destructive pattern continued upon his return to Russia, as he became his father’s right-hand in business. He had two relatively long romances: first with a domineering Greek woman, then with a pale, fluffy English Jane, who resembled the very girl he tried to banish from his heart.
Once back, his mother revived attempts to introduce “suitable brides” from their social circle. Artyom relocated to an apartment his father gave him at adulthood and withdrew from the family home. Ignoring his mother’s calls, he met his father’s entreaties with icy politeness:
“She wanted me to succeed? I am successful. But I won’t marry anyone she picks. Let her remember that once and for all.”
When Mishka messaged him, Artyom did not recognize the avatar—an aging balding man with glasses unfit with the skinny boy he remembered. However, upon renewal of contact, Artyom found himself surprisingly glad. Though he loathed reunions, he agreed to attend the alumni gathering.
Here he stood. She smiled softly at him, eyes free from reproach—only light sadness, which enraged him more.
“Hello,” he croaked. “You… haven’t changed at all.”
It was true: the same slenderness, freckles, and blue veins on delicate wrists. Only her long ponytail differed.
From that moment, everyone else vanished from his sight. Their conversation began cautiously but grew quicker and more breathless, with interruptions. She was indeed married but divorced five years ago. She had a single ten-year-old son named Igor.
Hearing his own name made Artyom blush deeply, yet secretly flattered him.
“Come with me,” he blurted impulsively, knowing how foolish and arrogant it sounded. “Take your son. Here in Moscow… things are different—schools, clubs. I’ll arrange everything.”
“You’re still a dreamer,” she offered sadly, her smile laden with the town’s unending sorrow.
“Is that a ‘no’?” he asked, old wounds aching.
She said nothing, only looked once more, grabbed her worn leather bag, and began to depart. Artyom found himself lost for words, unable to halt or persuade her. He merely watched as her slender figure dissolved among former classmates, each scattering back to their modest homes and unfulfilled lives.
“I’ll go with you,” came a sweet, playful voice nearby. Arzhanova hovered—equally vivid, brazen, and alluring. “Which hotel are you at, prince?”
“Central,” he replied automatically.
“I’ll walk you there,” she said, trailing a hand along his sleeve.
He felt indifferent—completely so. Summoning a taxi, they left silently, and he never asked her destination.
A knock interrupted him just as he removed his jacket, preparing for a shower. “Housekeeper? Wrong room?” he grumbled.
Opening the door, he froze. There stood Lika, in the same calico dress, hair disheveled, nostrils flaring with anger, eyes flashing lightning.
“Where is she?” she demanded, her voice trembling.
“Who?”
“That Arzhanova! First she stole my husband, the vile creature, and now you? Can’t get enough?”
Initially taken aback, Artyom then laughed aloud, sincerely for the first time tonight.
“She’s not here! Want to search the whole room?” He stepped aside.
Lika stormed inside, scanning the space, then relaxed somewhat, sinking onto a chair’s edge as if her fury had drained.
“Yulka called… she said you left with her together.”
“I took her by taxi home. Like a gentleman. That’s all.”
“You didn’t even kiss?” Her voice tinged with childish hurt.
He raised his hands in mock defense. “Innocent! I swear on my vinyl collection!”
“Why then?” she pressed. “She’s got plumped lips, big breasts… all that.”
“I didn’t come here for that,” Artyom said quietly but firmly.
“So why? To see me? After fifteen years, to recall your silly promise?” Her voice quivered with tears once again.
“Did you… wait?” he dared ask.
“I forgot you the very next day!” she snapped, averting her gaze.
“Perfect!” he countered. “I wasn’t pining much either.”
“Then I’ll go…”
“Go. But maybe first… let’s listen to the record?”
Lika squinted, a familiar mischievous spark returning.
“So you forgot me the day after but lugged your player halfway across the world? Makes sense.”
“Looks that way,” he smirked.
Silently, she rummaged through her worn bag and produced a large square envelope, extending it reverently to Artyom.
It was the very vinyl he had given her—the one with the handmade cover emblazoned with her handwriting spelling THE BEATLES, the album where they first kissed.
His hands trembled as he took it, removed the disk flawlessly preserved without a scratch, and set it on the player. The familiar hiss and first chords filled the room.
Love, love, love…
Without a word, they moved closer. He wrapped his arms around her slender waist; she encircled his neck. Together, they spun in a slow, dizzying waltz amid the nondescript hotel room, blue carpets, and bland furniture—a graduation dance they never had.
A rosy flush warmed her pale cheeks. His heart pounded as after a sprint. Time lost meaning. Why he forgot his promise or she refused to go no longer mattered. Only love remained — it flowed from the speakers, thundered in their heads, and pulsed in synchronized hearts frozen fifteen years ago, now beating anew.
All you need is love… sang Paul McCartney.
And both understood it was the undeniable truth.
In summary, the story poignantly captures the bittersweet reunion of two souls separated by time and circumstance, rekindling their bond through shared memories and enduring affection. It reflects themes of nostalgia, regret, and the profound power of love that transcends years and distance.