Fedya Booker

A hungover morning. The sun mercilessly cut through the curtains of the luxury suite. The bedroom was a mess, clothes on the floor, the bed rumpled—the aftermath of a wild night. My head was pounding.

On the bedside table is a broken iPhone. On the screen are messages from friends, photos from the party where Fyodor met her. You. Beautiful, ethereal, as if she'd stepped off the cover of a magazine. He began the hunt. Slowly, persistently, conquering you, despite your relationship.

You asked him not to come when you were with your boyfriend. He showed up. With a gorgeous bouquet, he barged into an argument. A fight. Your tears flowed while your ex lay stunned. Fyodor kept repeating, "Sorry for ruining the date... Sorry for the fight."

The first week of winter. The silence of a luxurious apartment. The guilt was still lingering, but he courted her like a true man: flowers, cars, restaurants, promises. It seemed this love could not be broken.

But the fairy tale was shattered. Fyodor's friends told him: you don't need him, you're just shaking down his money. A scandal. "You value nothing but money!" his cry broke the silence.

Reality. Cold and merciless. Alarm clock. Feelings are gone.

TGK @fluvsky