“Another spoonful, Katya. For the sake of the graphite gray color. For the scent of a new car interior. So that I never have to freeze at the bus stop again.”
The fibrous chicken breast, boiled to the consistency of wet paper, lodged in her throat. Overcooked, tasteless buckwheat lay in her stomach like a heavy, lifeless lump. Katya swallowed it down, chasing it with warm water from a glass. For a month now, her dinners had looked exactly like this. Breakfast matched. The lunch she took to work in a plastic container was no different. She could taste the bland, diet flavor even in her sleep. Yet, every time she contemplated giving it all up to order a huge, greasy pizza, she closed her eyes and envisioned it. The Cherry Tiggo 8 Pro Max. Their future crossover. Not just any car — a symbol. A representation of their achievement.
She reached for her phone, not to mindlessly scroll through her feed, but to open saved photos for the hundredth time. There it was, their beauty, basking in the light of the dealership. Graphite gray. With a massive panoramic roof. Katya could almost physically feel her fingers touching the cool leather of the steering wheel and the engine awakening beneath the hood. They had saved for nearly a year for the down payment. They sold Vitya’s old, constantly breaking down car. They gave up vacations, dining out, and even new clothes. The past month had been the toughest. Vitya had gone on this so-called ‘important’ business trip. He claimed the project was complicated, underpaid, but could benefit his career. He would have to stay in a cheap hotel in an industrial town, eating at a cafeteria. Katya imagined him struggling with tasteless meat patties somewhere near Chelyabinsk, and it provided her some relief. They were a team, suffering together for a common, grand, and glittering goal.
She finished her portion, rinsed the plate, and sat on the couch. The silence in the apartment felt strange. Normally, at this time, Vitya would be playing video games, the sounds of gunfire mingling with his comments. Now there was nothing. It was too quiet. To break the stillness, she opened her social media feed anyway. Faces, vacations, food, cats. Flickering images demanding no thought. She scrolled mechanically until her finger paused on a new post. It was Lena, Vitya’s sister.
In the photo, there were three people. Lena, her eternally smug husband, and… Vitya. They sat at a wooden table against the bright turquoise sea and the sunset sky. In Vitya’s hand was a skewer with roasted, mouthwatering pieces of meat. He was glowing. Not just smiling — glowing, like a polished samovar. Relaxed, tanned, satiated. Lena had her arm around him, her face radiating pure, unclouded joy. The caption under the photo delivered the final blow: “Spontaneous vacation in Sochi with my favorite brother! Sometimes you just have to indulge yourself!”
Katya did not scream. She didn’t even breathe heavily. It felt like the air in the room had simply vanished. The taste of buckwheat and chicken rose from her stomach to her throat in a bitter, acrid wave. Chelyabinsk. A cheap hotel. A cafeteria meat patty. Her Vitya. The team. The whole world she had built crumbled in an instant, crushed by the weight of a single skewer of kebabs. This wasn’t just deception. This was theft. They had both, his sister and he, stolen her dream, her hungry evenings, her faith.
Her fingers moved on their own, cold and precise, like a surgeon’s instruments. Screenshot. Open contacts. “Vitya.” Long rings. Finally, a sleepy, slightly irritated male voice answered.
— Katya, have you seen the time? I just dozed off, I’m as tired as a dog…
His voice didn’t come from industrial Chelyabinsk. It came from a warm, well-fed Sochi night.
— How’s the business trip? — she asked flatly, without a quiver in her tone. — It must be hard, huh?
— You have no idea, — he yawned into the phone. — Endless meetings, my head is spinning. I can barely stand. Alright, let’s talk tomorrow; I’m about to pass out…
She didn’t respond. She simply hit “end.” Opened the messenger. Attached the screenshot. Typed two words: “Enjoy your meal.” Sent. Went to contact settings. Blocked. The phone lay on the couch beside her, a useless piece of plastic. Katya sat in the deafening silence of her apartment and stared into the darkness outside the window. The taste of ash in her mouth grew stronger.
— Just relax, Vitya, — Lena lazily stirred the remnants of wine in her glass while looking out at the dark, oily sea. — You deserve a couple of days off. It’s not like you’re in prison. Your Katya always complicates everything. First, it’s a diet, now saving money. When will you live?
Vitya leaned back in the woven chair on the balcony of their rented apartment. The air was warm and scented with salt and blooming magnolia. His stomach pleasantly rumbled from the meat he had eaten and the wine he had sipped. He agreed with his sister completely. What’s the big deal? Just three days. He used his own stash, not their joint funds. Well, almost not from their joint funds. What’s the difference? They would make it up later. And Katya… she wouldn’t understand anyway. For her, any expense unrelated to the car was a crime. It was simpler to lie about Chelyabinsk. And calmer.
— I am relaxed, — he smirked while winking at Lena’s husband, who was silently fiddling with his phone. — You’re just being a little guilty…
— What guilt? — Lena scoffed. — You’re a man; you earn. You deserve to rest. Otherwise, you’ll turn into a bore like her. Watch out, she might make you choke on buckwheat.
At that moment, his phone, lying on the table, chimed briefly. A message from Katya. Vitya lazily reached for it. Probably a goodnight from her dreary world. He opened the chat. And the smile slipped from his face so swiftly it felt like it was erased with an eraser. The screen displayed their photo. Taken an hour ago. His shining face, the skewer, Lena. And beneath it two words: “Enjoy your meal.”
Cold sweat instantly broke out on his forehead. The warm southern evening suddenly felt chilly. The wine in his stomach became acid. He frantically pressed the call button. “The number is temporarily unavailable.” He dialed again. The same mechanical voice. Blocked.
— What’s going on? — Lena asked, peering away from the view of the sea, clearly annoyed.
— She knows, — Vitya croaked, showing her the screen. — She knows everything.
Lena glanced at the phone and then back at her brother. Her expression reflected not sympathy but annoyance, as if he had spilled wine on her new dress.
— Hysterical girl. So what? She knows. She’ll scream and then stop. She’s not a child; you can handle this.
— You don’t understand! — His voice raised to a shriek. — She won’t scream! This is it! The car, the apartment… everything!
Detriment pressed on him, sticky and suffocating. He wasn’t afraid of hurting Katya. He feared that his cozy, organized world, where he was fed, taken care of, and awaited, was about to collapse. Lena rolled her eyes and handed him her phone.
— Here, call from mine. Just don’t whine. Say I dragged you here against your will.
Vitya grabbed the phone like a drowning man clutches a straw. He dialed the number. Long beeps continued. He was ready to give up when someone answered. But it was silence.
— Katya! Katya, it’s me, Vitya! I was on a business trip, and then… — he blurted, jumping to his feet. — You misunderstood everything! It’s not what you think! Lena literally forced me; it was a surprise! I didn’t want this! I’m only here for a day; I’m leaving tomorrow! All the money is intact; I didn’t take a penny! Katya, please, say something!
He spoke quickly, incoherently, entangled in his own lies. He could hear her smooth, calm breathing on the other end, making it even scarier. It wasn’t the breath of an offended woman but a judge listening to the final word of the condemned. He exhaled and fell silent, awaiting a scream, a rebuke, anything at all.
After a long pause, she spoke, her voice chillingly even, like polished steel:
— What business trip, Vitya?! Your sister just posted photos of you eating kebabs in Sochi with her and her husband! On the money we saved for the car! So you can stay there! Sell your share of the apartment and live with your sister if she means more to you than your wife!
And she hung up. A moment later, he received a notification that this number was now unreachable as well. Vitya dropped his hand holding the phone. Lena stared at his pale face. The sound of waves crashing and laughter from the neighboring hotel felt like mockery. Vacation was over. Something entirely different had begun.
The phone lay on the couch, a black, lifeless rectangle. It no longer rang. Katya stood up and walked into the kitchen, her footsteps echoing in the hollow emptiness of the apartment. Her gaze fell upon the pot on the stove. Inside was the cooling, gray mass of buckwheat. A month of her life, her will, her hopes condensed into this disgusting, tasteless porridge. She took the pot, walked to the trash can, and with a dry, emotionless thud dumped its contents inside. She felt no relief. She felt nothing.
Her actions were devoid of fuss. There was no hysteria or anger. Just cold, measured mechanics as if she were performing a long-remembered task. She moved into the living room. In a prominent place on the dresser stood their altar. A large glass jar, almost full of neatly folded bills. On the side, in Vitya’s shaky handwriting, was written: “FOR THE CAR!!!”. Next to it lay a stack of brochures from the dealership featuring the glamorous Cherry Tiggo 8 Pro Max on the cover. A dream in glass and paper.
Katya held the jar in her hands. It was heavy. Heavy with countless hours of unpaid overtime, from every skipped lunch, from every denial to buy herself a new blouse or to go to the movies with friends. She held in her hands the materialized sacrifice. Her sacrifice. She did not shake it or break it. She simply unscrewed the lid and looked inside. Neat stacks of money, held together by rubber bands. Their shared future.
With that jar, she walked to the bathroom. She clicked the switch, flooding the white tiles with sharp, hospital-like light. She placed the jar on the edge of the sink, turned on the cold water, and approached the toilet. She lifted the lid. Then returned to the jar and pulled out the first pack of money. Thousand-ruble bills. She removed the rubber band. Took one banknote, crumpled it into a careless ball, and tossed it into the white porcelain throat. Pressed the flush. The water swirled with a greedy, gurgling sound, carrying the blue-green piece of paper away.
She watched as it vanished. It was mesmerizing. She took a second banknote. This one was for the tasteless chicken breast. Flushed. The third, for refusing the taxi in pouring rain. Flushed. The fourth. The fifth. For his lie about Chelyabinsk. For the satisfied face in the photo. For the skewer of kebabs. She didn’t rush. This was a ritual of dismantling. She wasn’t destroying money; she was annulling each day, each hour of her humiliation. Banknote after banknote, bundle after bundle, she fed their past and their future to the insatiable whirlpool of water.
When the last banknote disappeared into the churning water, she took the empty glass jar, dried it with a towel, and returned it to the room. She set it back in the same spot on the dresser. Empty, transparent, ringing. The jar under the inscription “FOR THE CAR!!!” now looked not like a goal, but as an epitaph.
Back in the kitchen, Katya opened the fridge. Ignoring the containers filled with her diet food, she pulled out a thick piece of marbled beef, once reserved for a special occasion. She took out butter, garlic, and a sprig of rosemary. From the bar, she retrieved a bottle of expensive red wine, which they intended to open after buying the car. The frying pan sizzled loudly as the steak met its surface. The kitchen filled with the rich, intoxicating aroma of sizzling meat, garlic, and spices — the scent of life. Pouring herself a full glass of dark ruby wine, Katya sat at the table. She ate slowly, savoring each bite, every sip. For the first time in weeks, she dined not to survive, but to truly live. She awaited no one. She was at home.
The last piece of steak melted in her mouth. Katya slowly finished her wine, feeling pleasant warmth spread through her body, washing away the remnants of her icy numbness. She placed the empty glass on the table. At that moment, a key turned in the lock. That sound, once meaning the return of a loved one, now echoed like metal scraping against glass — false and inappropriate.
The door swung open. Vitya stood on the threshold. Confused, disheveled, with red eyes from a sleepless night. Behind him, like a support group, stood Lena and her husband. They hadn’t come to reconcile. They had come to win, to bring the wanderer husband and brother back to the fold, to put the unruly wife in her place. The trio filled the entrance, bringing with them the smell of road dust and self-satisfaction. They had expected tears, broken dishes, hysteria. Instead, they encountered her. Calm, satiated, sitting at the table with the remnants of a lavish dinner.
— What is this? — Vitya broke the silence first. His voice was hoarse. He pointed at the plate, at the bottle of wine. — You decided to throw a feast?
He attempted to speak from a position of authority, an accuser, but his gaze darted around the room, searching for a point of anchorage. And he found it. His eyes landed on the dresser. On the empty glass jar with the ugly inscription “FOR THE CAR!!!”. His face contorted. This was not rage. This was primal horror at a material loss.
— Where?! — he stepped into the room, his voice rising to a shriek. — Where’s the money?! Did you spend it all?!
Immediately, as if on cue, Lena stepped forward. Her face was twisted with righteous indignation.
— I knew it! I told him he can’t trust you! All you think about is how to take something for yourself while he works hard! We save for you, deny ourselves everything, and you’re here living it up!
Her husband, standing behind, nodded in solidarity, lips pursed. They formed a united front, a tribunal come to judge her for squandering their money.
Katya remained silent. She let them spill everything they had brought back from their spontaneous vacation. She looked at them — at her husband, whose face was currently only worried about missing cash, at his sister radiating toxic hatred, at her spineless spouse. Slowly, she rose from the table, tall, straight, and looked them directly in the eyes. The air seemed to have fled the room. Then she spoke. Her voice did not tremble. It was steady, loud, and clear, like a whip crack.
— You can gather your things and get out of here!
For a moment, all three froze, stunned. This statement, delivered not in a phone hysterics but here, to their faces, in front of witnesses, had the weight of a cast iron slab. Lena was the first to recover.
— How dare you tell him what to do! — she yelled, escalating to a screech. — This is his apartment too! You’re nobody here! A freeloader!
— You’re just jealous that we can afford to relax, while you can’t! — Vitya chimed in, grabbing onto his sister’s lifeline. — It was my money! Mine!
Accusations, insults, and screams blended into a single hideous roar. They advanced, trying to smother her with their numbers, volume, and arrogance. But Katya no longer listened. She saw no sense in this dialogue. Silently, she turned, strode past them into the hallway, and flung the entrance door wide open. A cold draft rushed into the apartment from the stairwell. Then she turned and looked only at Vitya, disregarding the other two.
— Get out. All three of you…