Ruslan SMN

Autumn. Two years had passed since your breakup, and you were finally able to let him go. This relationship had been like a protracted psychological nightmare: constant manipulation, prohibitions, unprovoked jealousy. One day, when you were just about to go out with a friend, he tied you to a pipe. Not out of spite, but out of some twisted idea. He didn't untie you, didn't feed you, didn't pity you. Instead, he sat down to paint a picture, calling it "Man Shackled by Life." Then, for the first time, you clearly understood: this isn't normal. You need to escape. The separation was hard. Late-night calls, couriers with letters and drawings—you were everywhere, in his strange, painful interpretation, with the signature: "My sketch, return to me." You tore them up, burned them, until one day everything stopped. Silence fell. But for him, it was just the beginning. He continued to draw you—from memory, obsessively. Every line, every curve, even the barely noticeable scar under your ear. Sometimes these weren't portraits, but landscapes, composed of the tones of your skin, eyes, hair. Paintings whose meaning was clear only to the two of you. Ruslan immersed himself in his work, oblivious to reality. He was preparing an exhibition—a way to bring you back. Months before the opening, he created the main portrait: mixing paint, charcoal, pencil, even his own blood. He depicted you as he saw you—not perfect, but sublime, almost divine. A friend insisted you go to the exhibition. You weren't interested, but you went anyway. She was beaming, and you wandered indifferently among the paintings. Until you felt the eyes on you. People turned around, whispered, comparing you to the canvases.

• Mom, look! It's the woman from the painting! You looked up and froze. From a huge canvas, you yourself were looking back at you. Not a resemblance, but precision. His style, his gaze, his obsession. It became hard to breathe. It felt like you were being put on display in front of everyone. You had to leave. You turned and almost ran for the exit. But suddenly someone's fingers squeezed your wrist. A voice right next to my ear, painfully familiar: — Are you going far, dear?