Thirty-six hours later.
Alina
When I bought my bright yellow suitcase, I daydreamed about travels, adventures, and high-speed train rides past blooming fields and crystal-clear lakes. But if I ever find myself in a train compartment again with ladies eating fried chicken for breakfast and neighbors who seem determined to celebrate a year’s worth of holidays in one night, I swear I’ll never take this suitcase anywhere again.
My head is pounding like there’s a metal ball trapped inside, ricocheting off the walls of my skull with every move I make. That’s why, despite the lively chatter of the other passengers, I’m still lying down. There’s only one perk to having the top bunk on a train, and right now, it’s my saving grace.
If you pick the lower bunk, you have to be ready for the people above to climb down in the morning and plop onto your bed. But if you’ve got the top spot, you can lounge there the whole trip, only coming down for a cup of instant coffee thoughtfully prepared by the conductor.
The students on the other side of my compartment are, judging by the smell, brewing instant noodles and singing Ukrainian folk songs, which pleasantly surprises me. Not the noodles, of course, but the songs. If the older ladies started singing about the viburnum outside the window, I wouldn’t bat an eye, but when young girls choose to sing “Green Rye” instead of pop hits, it fills me with pride for the younger generation. I even start humming along under my breath to the few lines I know.
The general mood of the passengers distracts me from the persistent, dark thoughts that creep into my mind like cockroaches. While I can somewhat push those thoughts away, I can’t stop touching my neck. Every time I think about that night, tears stream down my cheeks uncontrollably, and my hand instinctively reaches for my throat, as if to protect myself from a man I once loved.
The night after arriving at my parents’ house, I sobbed like a wounded dog. My head throbbed from endlessly replaying that horrific scene. At first, I cried over what I saw, then over the betrayal, and finally out of pity for myself. When the tears on my cheeks dried up, I felt nothing—as if they had washed away not just the memory, but the last few years of my life. Even the memories felt unreal, as if there was neither good nor bad. Nothing at all.
And that’s a good thing, because with every new message from Oleg, I realized how lucky I was to see his true colors now, before the wedding.
Before, I chalked up his jealousy to some twisted form of love, but now I see clearly that he used it as a tool to control me. Why did it take me so long to understand this? Did I really need to experience violence to get my head on straight?
Now, I’m not even sure it was love at all. One day—that’s all it took for me to cry him out of my system and let go. Waking up the next morning with a face so swollen from tears that even my parents barely recognized me, I felt an emptiness I’d never known before. There wasn’t just a lack of love left for the man I’d recently planned to spend my life with—there wasn’t even a shred of fondness. It was as if some spell had been lifted.
Ahead of me, I’ve got nearly a week to clear my mind of the image of my ex and the scene I witnessed in that changing room. And finally, to purge my heart of everything I once called love.
I shift from foot to foot, trying to loosen up my tired legs as I stand crammed in the train’s vestibule with everyone else, bundled in my coat and clutching my suitcase. The shoving is so intense that even a sardine in a can would be jealous. I get that the stop at the station is only three minutes, but do people really think if they don’t get off in time, they’ll have to jump out the window while the train’s moving?
As soon as the conductor clicks the latch on the train door, everyone surges toward the exit, elbowing each other and rolling over feet with their wheeled suitcases. I try to get out as quickly as I can before someone pushes me under the train, because I’m terrified of stepping over that gap—whether it’s from the platform to the train or from a dock to a boat. My phobia whispers in my ear, “One wrong step, and you’ll fall into that void, you klutz.”
When our group finally spills out of the train, Marina counts us to make sure no one’s missing, and we shuffle toward the station exit, dragging our feet. Taxi drivers, lurking on the platform like undercover agents, cautiously approach the new arrivals, whispering offers for their services. But we confidently head to the parking lot, where a transfer to the hotel—three cars in total—should be waiting for us. After all, we’ve got to fit twelve passengers somehow.
I didn’t bother asking about the trip details beforehand, so I don’t know the hotel’s name, address, or how to get there. Right now, I’m just trying to keep up with the others.
I reach the parking lot and see that our little swarm has already stuffed their suitcases into the trunks of the cars. Two of them are dark, almost black, while one is a vibrant blue, shimmering under the sunlight and drawing the eye. I toss my modestly sized suitcase into the trunk and hurry to claim the empty seat next to the driver.
Out of the whole group, I only really know Marina, and it’s thanks to her that I’m here. I met the others at the station while waiting for the train, but I didn’t even catch most of their names, so I’m not too keen on squeezing in with strangers in the backseat.
The moment the last passenger in our car takes their seat, the driver’s door opens, letting in a strong whiff of cologne and cigarettes, followed by the owner of the scent himself. Looks like I picked the right car.
What’s important on a road trip? Comfort and good conversation. Comfort gets a check— the car is warm and cozy, clearly fairly new, with everything polished to a shine, like, well, you know what. As for “interesting conversationalist,” that’s still TBD, but the fact that the driver’s easy on the eyes is already a bonus for this trip.
The drive to the hotel passes in silence. At least for me. There’s lively chatter in the back, but I don’t join in. Uncharacteristically for myself, I stare quietly out the window. The spontaneous, rushed packing and a sleepless night in the “magical” train compartment have taken their toll, and I’m ready to doze off any second. Especially since the peaceful drive through a snowy forest in a soft car seat is practically begging me to.
Unlike our city, where winter mostly means slush or rain underfoot, everything here is blanketed in white, and it delights me to no end. The branches of the fir trees sag under the weight of snow, and the road itself feels like it’s running through a snowy tunnel.
We’ve been driving through forests and villages for about forty minutes now, and despite the neat little houses we pass, there’s still a sense of remoteness. Something tells me you can’t just up and leave this place easily.
The car stops, the driver cuts the engine, and the back doors open. A cold draft sweeps through the cabin, snapping me out of my daze as I realize I’ve been staring at the driver.
“We’re here,” he says cheerfully, winking at me before pulling a hat over his head and stepping out of the car.
Great, now I feel like an idiot. I could just sink through the floor from embarrassment. He probably thinks I’m weird for zoning out and staring at one spot when I should be getting my butt up and moving.
But I shouldn’t care. I’ll step out of this car, never see him again, and won’t have to blush anymore.
While I was busy gawking at the driver, the others are already trudging up the hill to the cabins, dragging their suitcases behind them. I hurry to catch up, only wishing my suitcase had sled runners instead of wheels.
After conquering the steep climb, I stop in front of a row of two-story cabins lined up along a path.
When Marina first invited me to join her group, I had other plans and had to decline, even though the trip cost was a steal, even for my modest savings. One of the families who was supposed to go got sick at the last minute, and since the deposit was non-refundable, she started looking for willing friends to fill the gap.
So, since I agreed to join this trip at the eleventh hour, I didn’t have much say in accommodations. Well, I had a choice, but not a great one. Option one: share a room with a family. Option two: share with kids. More specifically, teenagers.
I immediately ruled out staying with a family—I didn’t want to feel like an intruder or cramp their space in any way. That left only the second option. Heaven help me survive this.
The rest of the day is spent settling into our rooms, resting, and unpacking. The room is decent—four separate beds, a couch, a TV, a spacious bathroom, and even a small kitchenette. The open layout makes it feel roomy, and at first glance, there’s more than enough space. That is, until the kids start scattering their stuff everywhere.
During my university days, I chose to live in a dorm instead of at home, so I’ve got some experience with roommates who thrive on chaos and don’t respect personal space. At first, it drove me up the wall, and I was constantly annoyed at having to clean up after my messy roommate. But eventually, I got used to it. Irina turned out to be a knowledge-hungry soul who did everything with passion, read a ton, and aced her studies. The fact that her books, notes, and countless pencils migrated across the room throughout the day, creating a mess, I chalked up to her creative process and learned to ignore it. Turns out, a little indifference can make a person a bit happier.
I step over a pink backpack and scattered slippers on the floor, then flop onto the couch next to Dmytro, a cheerful ten-year-old boy, to watch cartoons.