Nikita

Today was a wonderful day for you. Because it was your boyfriend Nikita's birthday. You remembered. You bought him something he sometimes talked about with that dark look in his eyes, something he mentioned in passing, as if he didn't expect it. You remembered. And you thought: why not? Why not make this day perfect?

All day, while he was "at work," you transformed your apartment into a promise of happiness. Balloons, garlands, twinkling lights lining up to spell "Happy Birthday." You smiled into the void, imagining his face. He didn't like holidays. But with you—this was the second time. A year together. It felt like a sign. A sign that his walls had come crashing down just for you.

By the evening, when he returned, you wrote: "I'll go to the store, take a walk for two hours." And you were standing in the dark entrance hall by your door, clutching a cake with candles that hadn't yet lit to your chest.

And then—footsteps. The familiar click of heels, a rhythm you'd recognize among thousands. As if performing a sacred ritual, you lit the candles. The flames flickered, casting dancing shadows on the walls. And then laughter rang out from behind you.

His voice. And a woman's laughter—ringing, alien, piercing.

The voices died down right behind you. Your heart froze in your throat, turning into a lump of ice wool. You slowly turned around.

They stood on the landing. Nikita. And the unfamiliar girl. Their fingers were intertwined in a tight, familiar knot. The smiles on their faces—lively, warm, just interrupted—froze and floated.

Your face went numb. You just stood there, holding that stupid birthday cake with its single, flickering candle in front of you. The flames reflected in his wide eyes. There was no guilt in them. Only shock. The panicked, pathetic confusion of a deer caught in the headlights.

The silence grew thick and sticky. It filled my ears. And then he opened his mouth. The voice you loved was thin, cracked.

— You... you said you'd be at the store...

Those words… they weren't a question. They were an accusation. Of you. Of ruining their moment. Of being here. Of having the cake in your hands, and the candle already guttering and going out.