Oleg slammed the refrigerator door so hard that everything inside trembled. A decorative magnet clattered to the floor.
Lena stood facing him, pale, her fists clenched.
— “Feel better now?” she whispered, raising her chin sharply.
— “You exhaust me…” Oleg replied, his voice trembling despite his efforts to stay calm. “What kind of life is this? No joy, no future.”
— “So it’s my fault again?” Lena let out a bitter laugh. “Of course. It’s not like in your dreams, is it?”
Oleg wanted to reply but gave up. He gestured vaguely, opened a bottle of mineral water, took a sip straight from it, and set it on the table.
— “Oleg, talk to me instead of shutting down,” Lena said, her voice shaking. “Just say it for once. Say what’s wrong.”
— “You really want to know?” he sneered. “Would you even understand? I’m losing it, Lena. I’m going crazy.”
They stared at each other in silence for a moment. Then Lena took a deep breath and walked off to the bathroom. Oleg collapsed onto the couch. He heard water running—she had likely turned on the tap to mask her sobs. But he realized he didn’t care anymore.
They had been married for three years. They lived in the apartment Lena had inherited from her parents. The latter had retired to the countryside, leaving their daughter a spacious flat, but with outdated decor and furniture from another era—almost Soviet in style.
At first, Oleg put up with it. The location was ideal: downtown, close to work, in a nice neighborhood. But after six months, the routine started to weigh on him. Lena, on the other hand, felt comfortable in that nostalgic cocoon, with its brown wallpaper and her grandmother’s sideboard. For Oleg, it was all dull and ordinary.
— “Lena, seriously, doesn’t that ugly yellow linoleum bother you? These wallpapers? We could modernize a little…”
— “Oleg, we don’t have the money for renovations. Of course I’d love to redo everything, but we have to wait for a bonus or save up.”
— “Wait… That’s all you ever do. Wait and endure.”
He still remembered the day he met Lena. A shy student, with gentle eyes and a sincere smile. He used to say, “She’s a flower bud—one day she’ll bloom and dazzle everyone.” Now he thought: “She never bloomed. She just withered.”
But Lena had never felt she was withering. She lived at her own pace, finding happiness in the details: a new tablecloth, a good book, a cup of mint tea, the soft light from a lamp. For Oleg, all that meant stagnation.
And yet, he didn’t want a divorce. That would mean moving back in with his parents. And he could hardly stand them. His mother, Tamara Ilitchina, always defended Lena:
— “My son, you’re wrong. Lena is an exceptional woman. You should be grateful—you’re living in her home.”
— “Mom, you don’t understand anything. You’re like her—stuck in another century.”
Tamara would sigh. Her son was slipping away. His father, Igor Sergeyevich, more pragmatic, would simply say:
— “Let him live his life.”
But each day, Oleg came home with more bitterness. He told himself, “Lena is a shadow. A gray little mouse. She’s trapped me in this apartment.”
One night, he exploded:
— “I used to see you as a flower… But look at you! You never bloomed. You’re just a cold, closed bud.”
Lena burst into tears—for the first time in months.
Then, one summer day, they finally discussed divorce seriously. Oleg was staring out the window; neighbors bustled about on their balconies.
— “Lena, I’m at the end of my rope,” he said without looking at her.
— “The end of what?” she asked calmly.
— “Of this life. These fights. You live wrapped in your world of tablecloths and saucepans. I want more than this slow-motion survival.”
Lena didn’t answer. She grabbed a garbage bag and walked out. The door slammed. He thought she’d come back quickly, that they would talk. She returned half an hour later, visibly calmer.
— “You know,” she said, leaning against the wall, “maybe you really should live alone. Leave.”
— “No way. I’m not leaving my home.”
— “Oleg… This isn’t your home. It’s my parents’ apartment. Let’s be honest—it’s not working. It’s over.”
He said nothing. Locked himself in the bedroom with his computer. But one thought gnawed at him: “I’ll have to go back to my parents’…”
Eventually, he was the one who filed for divorce. He wanted to believe the decision was his. He packed his things and went back to his parents’ place, reluctantly. Lena didn’t resist. The divorce went through quickly.
Three years passed. Oleg still lived with his parents. He had hoped to find an apartment, meet an ambitious woman… But he was stuck. Mediocre job, low income, constant criticism from his parents.
One cold spring evening, walking home, he passed a café. And there, through the lit window…
Lena.
But she had changed. Upright, elegant, well-groomed, stylish, with a new confidence in her gaze. In her hand, car keys—a nice car, clearly.
“Unbelievable…” Oleg thought as he approached, drawn toward her.
— “Lena?”
She turned, took a moment to recognize him, then smiled. A calm, confident smile.
— “Hi, Oleg. It’s been a while. How are you?”
— “Fine… Looks like you are too.”
— “You could say that. I’m living the life I always dreamed of.”
— “You still work at the same place?”
— “No. I opened my own flower shop. I was scared, but…” she smiled, “…someone supported me.”
— “Who?”
Before she could answer, a well-dressed man came out of the café and wrapped his arm around her.
— “Sweetheart, a table’s free. Shall we?”
Lena turned to Oleg:
— “This is Vadim. Vadim, this is Oleg.”
Oleg looked at Vadim, then at Lena. She had bloomed—but not with him.
He walked off into the night. Burning with jealousy. And regret.
