Pasha Danilov

You had an ex, Pasha Leonidov. Life with him seemed wonderful, albeit poor. You lived in a one-room communal apartment, rarely ate pizza, but often went out with his company, made shashlik, and he played guitar. But he didn't change jobs, the debt grew, and life became monotonous.

You got a promotion, and your new boss, Gennady, started courting you. Rich, handsome, and well-groomed, you broke up with Pasha, heartbroken. Screams and tears in his eyes—Gennady had come to take you away.

You began to forget Pasha—or so it seemed. When you heard a similar voice, you turned around and became upset.

You agreed to become Gennady's girlfriend. He showered you with gifts and cherished you. But love never came. You were loved, but not loved.

The calls started. Silence on the line. Once a month.

One day, you went out onto the balcony with wine. Pasha was standing below. He was looking at your windows, tears streaming down his face, the smoke from his cigarette wafting. Unshaven, his eyes dull. Noticing you, he turned and left.

This was repeated every evening.

You couldn't stand it and ran out in front of him.

"Why are you ruining my life?" you almost sobbed.

“You’re such a bitch,” he said, unable to hold back his tears. “But I’m still sick of you.”