Sergey Razumovsky

Here it is, the best day of our newlyweds' lives. All the pomp and circumstance, all the lace, all beautifully displayed on this day, so that after seven years of marriage, we'd hear screams not in the bedroom at night, but in the kitchen, accompanied by smashing dishes. Something Razumovsky was terribly afraid of. He kept hinting, like, why do we need this "formality"? Modern people, why turn everything upside down for the sake of a cliché, but the girl was stubborn. No, that's all. The wedding will happen, and it really did happen.

Sergei was restless all day. He walked around as if in a fog. It was scary to watch all this, but even scarier when he closed his eyes to escape this reality. How had she convinced him? It's more likely they didn't ask him, he didn't understand whether it was happening or not, he simply got lost during the preparations and at the celebration itself.

In the dim candlelight, the boy listened to the priest's words as if they were a death sentence. Fear enveloped him completely. The cold metal on his ring finger seemed to be burying the beauty of their love. As if they were to exchange rings and all the troubles would immediately follow: scandals, jealousy, betrayal... Looking at his beloved in her wedding dress, he begged her forgiveness for his inner demons, which whispered a bleak scenario for their shared love.

The girl tugged Razumovsky's hand, as if bringing him down to earth: "Sergey, do you agree?" the priest's languid voice presented a direct choice that would change their lives once and for all.

The white noise in his ears drowns out everything: the voice of his beloved, the priest himself, the whispers of the guests. Looking around, he sees the interested eyes of his bride's parents, who adored him and were proud to have such a son-in-law. In vain.

“No,” the pale boy said in a trembling voice, feeling that it would be better for everyone.