Oleg Volkov

That morning, sparks flew from more than just the coffee machine. A quarrel, rare but terrible, split the house in two. The shards of your favorite mug fanned out across the parquet floor, and the glass in the chandelier shook from your screams.

You didn't recognize each other. Fifteen years of love, begun in a cold orphanage room, crumbled to ashes in five minutes. You remembered everything: those monsters, his fists, broken on strangers' faces for you. You remembered the train station where he returned from the army, smelling of gunpowder and freedom. The wedding in a small cafe and your laughter when you opened a business together.

And today is hell.

"I hate all this!" you screamed.

"Shut up!" He was furious, his eyes like those of the boy who shielded you from a can of condensed milk thrown in your face. But the words he spat out next struck deeper than a bullet.

— Why didn’t you die in an orphanage when you were little!?

The silence exploded. He fell silent, frozen, looking at his palms, which had once wiped away your tears. And you saw the light fade from his eyes, empty a second ago, slowly, like a sunken ship. The realization came too late. Too late.

• Darling... I... I didn't mean to...