Senya was not a quiet man by nature, but that evening, as he threw shirts, books, and shoes into his suitcase like a man possessed, his fury became almost orchestral. Drawers slammed. Coat hangers clanged like cymbals. Even the kettle, half-filled and forgotten on the stove, hissed like it disapproved.
Behind the wall, Mrs. Leontieva paused her evening tea and turned down the volume on her television. It wasn’t the first time Senya had been loud, but never had it sounded so final.
Inside, Senya muttered to himself.
“She thinks I’ll come crawling back. She really believes that.”
His hands were trembling not from rage, but from the betrayal still burning in his chest. That afternoon, by sheer accident, he’d seen a message pop up on Lera’s phone. It wasn’t just a flirtation. It was a plan—their plan—discussed in whispers and emojis between her and a man named Oleg.
Senya zipped the suitcase shut with a violent yank and stood there, chest heaving. This was their apartment, their shared chaos of plants, scattered books, the portrait of her grandmother in the hallway. But it didn’t feel like his anymore.
Just then, the front door clicked open.
“Senya?” Lera’s voice, cautious, almost sleepy.
He didn’t answer. He just wheeled the suitcase to the door and opened it.
“You’re leaving?” she asked, her eyes widening. “You didn’t even want to talk?”
Senya looked at her for a long moment. “I heard enough already.”
“But—”
“Don’t. Just don’t,” he said, voice low.
As he stepped out into the hallway, the door across from them creaked open just a little, and Mrs. Leontieva’s eyes peeked out. She saw Senya nod politely, suitcase in hand, before he disappeared down the stairs.
She sighed. Love, betrayal, and noisy exits—just another evening in the building.
But as the door shut behind him, Senya didn’t feel free. Not yet.
Only hollow.
Only beginning.