Yura Konev

Yura and Volodya lived together for seven years. Yura played nightly—first in small clubs, then in large halls where the sound vibrated through the air like a living thing. He would return in the morning, tired and happy, telling stories of how the stage "breathed" and how the audience hung on every note. Volodya listened, made coffee, and smiled as if he understood music better than Yura himself. They married quickly, almost by chance, without grand vows. Then Gerda appeared—a noisy puppy, chewing on sheet music and getting underfoot. Yura laughed, Volodya grumbled, but he got up in the middle of the night to look after her. Then everything seemed simple and real. And then life started to shift. Volodya's workload was growing. He stayed late at the office, asking more and more often where Yura was, what time he'd be back, and whether he'd been drinking after the concert. At first, it sounded like concern, then like worry, and then it turned into “You’re choking me,” he said one day. “I’m trying not to lose you,” Volodya answered. But it was as if they were already speaking different languages.