I met Yura through my sister, too. Would you say she meddled in my life? I can’t say for sure now—maybe it just felt that way to me back then. But over a decade ago, I rebelled against her influence, even choosing to study not in the capital, where Marichka had already been pursuing her degree for three years, but at a university in another regional city.
My parents just threw up their hands in despair—their younger daughter would surely flounder without the guidance and support of her brilliant older sister! But, to everyone’s surprise, I adapted easily to both the university and the dorm life. I made friends and stopped being such a loner like I was at home.
No, I didn’t go wild or anything. That would’ve been hard to do on a “girls’” campus, where guys were a rare sight. My roommates turned out to be incredibly serious young women, and our free-time activities were pretty refined—we went to movies, museums, exhibitions, and read and discussed “trendy” books. Later, I looked back on those five years of college with a faint nostalgia, increasingly wondering if I’d made a mistake by returning home. I’d been offered a chance to stay at the university and pursue graduate studies. But things didn’t turn out as I’d hoped…
It was my final year of college, and I’d come home for the weekend. Marichka decided to visit our parents at the same time. That Saturday happened to be Valentine’s Day—a weird, “imported” holiday I didn’t like because of its forced sentimentality and showiness. By Sunday, social media would be flooded with photos of girls holding enormous bouquets, plush hearts, and life-sized teddy bears. But did any of that have anything to do with real love? I seriously doubted it.
I was twenty years old. Most of my peers already had one or two relationships under their belts—some even more, successful or not. A few of my high school classmates had gotten married and were now proudly pushing strollers through the streets with their babies.
Me? I’d never dated anyone. Not once had I experienced anything close to a romantic relationship. It’s not like I was unattractive or some kind of bookish prude—no, I was a perfectly average girl, and acquaintances often said I was pretty. But somehow, fate hadn’t yet brought me face-to-face with a guy who could spark my interest. Like most girls, I had crushes on actors, singers, and other celebrities. Even one of my university professors caught my eye. But those were all superficial attractions, with the unspoken understanding that they weren’t for me. They were people from different worlds, impossible to imagine as my “other half.” The boys in high school were scrawny, lanky, loud, and still clueless about what it meant to be grown-up. At university, as I mentioned, my program was mostly girls, though there were plenty of guys in other departments. But we never really interacted with them. I’d only been to a handful of dances in all my years of college. Sure, there were dorm parties, but the guys there either already had steady girlfriends or just weren’t my type at all. And so, I reached the age of twenty without ever having kissed anyone. Forget kissing—I’d never even been on a date. It’s embarrassing to admit, but it’s the truth.
So, was I about to “celebrate” this Valentine’s Day alone in my room, curled up with a copy of *One Hundred Years of Solitude* (talk about a symbolic title)?
But fate, in the form of my unstoppable sister, had other plans. That Saturday evening, she was heading to a friend’s place. This friend, Veronika, was lucky enough to have been born on Valentine’s Day, so it was a double celebration. And Marichka couldn’t think of anything better than to drag me along: “So you won’t be bored, Lina!”
My parents enthusiastically supported the idea, and under their combined pressure, I caved. I put on some bold makeup (though I’m exaggerating a bit for effect), slipped into my only “fancy” black dress with a red collar—which Marichka claimed made me look just like Scarlett O’Hara...
Okay, she was definitely laying it on thick there. I resembled Vivien Leigh, the actress who played Scarlett in *Gone with the Wind*, only in my thick, dark hair, pale skin, and gray-green eyes. I had none of her aristocratic poise, charm, or grace—just a huge dose of self-consciousness.
So, stepping into a stranger’s apartment where I’d never been before, having only met the hostess a couple of times, and seeing most of her guests for the first time in my life, I felt awkward and, as was my old habit, tried to shrink into a corner.
I plopped down on a couch by the window, picked up a glossy magazine, and started flipping through it with the intensity of someone reading the most fascinating book of their life.
More guests kept arriving at Veronika’s place, and soon the standard two-bedroom Soviet-era apartment was packed to the brim. Everyone was chatting and laughing. In the kitchen, the hostess and my sister clattered dishes as they prepared snacks. Some guys stepped out onto the balcony to smoke, while a group of girls near me gossiped about mutual acquaintances. No one paid any attention to me, and I suddenly felt ashamed. Why on earth had I come here, to this crowd of strangers older than me, in this outdated dress, with bright red lipstick (why did I even bother?) on my lips? That lipstick felt especially out of place—I knew that as soon as I ate or drank anything, it would leave marks on glasses or smear unattractively across my mouth. I should’ve just gone with a subtle pink gloss, but no, I’d decided to play the femme fatale, the fatal woman. It was downright laughable!
So, I got up and headed to the bathroom to wash off this red disaster before everyone sat down to eat. I rinsed my face, stepped out of the bathroom, and at that exact moment, the front door opened—and in came an enormous bouquet of red roses...
No, it was actually a guy, but his face was completely hidden behind the massive bundle of flowers.
That bouquet stunned me so much that I froze in place, my mouth hanging open.
I’d always thought those photos of girls with giant flower arrangements were staged. I’d even heard from a friend who worked at a flower shop that they offered a special service—letting customers take pictures with a beautiful bouquet for a small fee. The girl could show off to her friends, and the bouquet stayed at the shop. Everyone wins.
But apparently, there really were heroes out there willing to buy their sweetheart such a massive bunch of roses! And not in July or August, when you could haggle with the ladies at the market for a reasonable price. No, in February! On Valentine’s Day, no less, when flower and gift vendors traditionally jacked up their prices to the heavens.
Meanwhile, the guy kicked off his sneakers but struggled to shrug off his jacket—his hands were full. So, he set the bouquet down on a small table in the hallway and started to undress. That’s when his eyes met mine—I was still standing there like an idiot in the bathroom doorway, completely dumbfounded.
He was ridiculously good-looking, I’ll give him that. And he had an incredible smile.
“Hey! Happy Valentine’s Day!” he said with a grin, handing me a deep red rose on a long stem.
Somewhere in the room, someone turned on music, and an old stereo crackled to life with a husky voice singing a Russian ballad:
“I look at him, I look at him and realize—I’m falling...
I don’t know, don’t know, don’t know a thing about him, but I’m falling…”
And just like the heroine of that song, I knew I was in deep trouble...