Night. The child is asleep. Anton is gone.
In our home, there’s silence. But not the kind that soothes. The kind that suffocates.
I’m lying on the bathroom tiles. Lying here as if someone placed me down. But no, it was me. I did this.
I just didn’t know where else to go to escape the noise. To not hear, not see, not feel, not exist.
I’m not crying anymore. The tears came earlier.
Now, there’s just silence inside me. Emptiness.
It feels like something has died. Maybe it’s me.
My family…
I believed in it so fiercely. No, not in him. I believed in us. In this picture, this “normalcy.”
In a husband who works, a wife who holds everything together, a child, a home.
But he left. Just said:
— I’m tired. I need to be alone for a while. Maybe I’ll come back. Maybe I won’t.
Maybe I’ll come back. Maybe I won’t.
What is this, a rental? Am I a table at a coffee shop—sit down, leave, come back whenever?
And me—what am I, a thing to be left behind and picked up on a whim?
I lived. I breathed this life.
And now I’m lying on the floor. And I don’t care.
My lips sting. I’ve bitten them raw. It hurts—but let it.
A draft creeps under the door. Maybe I didn’t close the front door properly. But I’m not cold. I don’t feel the cold at all.
Because tonight, I died.
And then I remember. Her. The only one who always understands me.
Not Anton. Not anyone in the family.
My best friend.
We’re not just friends. We’re like sisters, just not by blood.
She lives in another country. She has a little boy, just a tiny thing. But I know:
even in the middle of the night, she’ll pick up the phone. Or she’ll reply.
I grab my phone. She’s online.
— I’m not okay. Say something.
— What’s wrong?
— I’m lying on the floor. That’s it. I just don’t know how to get through this.
— Get up. Right now.
— I can’t.
— Get up. I’m not flying over to make you soup at three in the morning.
— What about a shot of something stronger?
— Well, maybe, but we promised ourselves—no more of that.
— I don’t know how to keep going.
— You do. You’ve just forgotten. I’m going to remind you. Write it down.
And I write.
She reads. And, as always, she doesn’t stay silent.
— I warned you. Fifteen years. And the last six, he’s been gone more than he’s been here.
— Always off somewhere—Poland, Czechia, “saving for a house,” “working on an exciting project.”
— And you? You’ve been on your own with the kid, with your disabled dad, with all your struggles.
— This isn’t living, Masha. This is surviving. And you’ve survived. Better than anyone could.
— Just look at how you’ve carried it all. You managed when he wasn’t around.
— Daycare, school, illnesses, bills, breakdowns—all on your own.
— And him? He didn’t even know the washing machine broke down.
— He never even asked how you were doing.
I read her words—and I sob. But quietly.
Because she’s right. She’s always right.
— You know, you’ve always been like a light to me.
— A green-eyed star, shining even on the darkest nights.
— You used to write poetry, paint, dance. You were so… alive.
— And then you just stopped breathing. Inside.
— You stopped eating properly, started chugging coffee to fight the exhaustion, shut yourself off.
— And then the thyroid issues, the psoriasis, the diabetes.
— These aren’t just illnesses. This is your body screaming, “Listen to me!”
— So tell me: do you want to stay like this?
— Or do you want to be yourself again?
I don’t know.
I’m lying here. Reading her words. And something inside me trembles.
It’s not faith yet. It’s not strength.
It’s… hope.
She adds:
— I believe in you. I’m proud of you.
— You’re so strong. You’re an inspiration.
— You’ve carried everything on your shoulders for six years. And you never complain.
— You’ll get through this too. Because you’re Masha.
— Masha, who doesn’t give up.
— Masha, who will transform.
— Masha, who will show everyone what she’s made of.
I laugh through my tears.
— There you go again with your motivational speeches.
— I’m not ready to impress anyone yet.
— Doesn’t matter. I’m ready to believe in you. And that’s enough for now.
And you know what?
I sit up.
My home—it’s still the same.
The world—it’s still the same.
But me—I’m already a little different.