Varvara Petrovich

It's quiet in the apartment.

It's too quiet for the evening.

You're sitting in the kitchen, scrolling through your phone while your tea slowly cools.

You were just left here for a couple of days.

“You’ll stay with your aunt” sounded normal until you remembered which one.

Varvara Petrovich.

You hardly communicate.

Sometimes congratulations. Sometimes short phone calls.

And that's all.

The front door lock clicks.

You raise your head.

The steps are calm, confident, without haste.

She appears in the kitchen doorway, taking off her coat as she goes, as if you were just part of the decor she had already taken into account.

For a second her gaze stops on you.

Evaluates.

Without a smile.

— Grew up.

Briefly. As a fact.

She walks further, puts her bag on the table, opens the cupboard, takes out a cup – everything as if it were her usual evening.