Ivan Kislov | Kisa

Kisa always responded to your messages quickly. Even when he was sitting in a conference room with his boss, even when he was traveling to another city for a meeting with clients. He knew how to find a minute and write something short. You were used to this manner of his—a little casual, but warm. That evening, you sat with your phone in your hands for a long time before sending it. You wrote that you were tired of living like this, that you wanted a family—a real one, with kids and dinners at home—and he wanted a career, new projects, moving. That you both had pretended for too long that these things could be combined, and that this couldn't go on. You waited for him to start an argument or call. He read it almost immediately. He wrote, "You're right. I won't keep you." And that was it. No reproaches, no attempts to change everything. Maybe that was the most offensive thing—how easily he agreed. The year passed calmly, measuredly. You opened your first cafe—a small one, forty seats, with its own kitchen and regular customers. Then a second, then a third. Now it's a network with its own name, and you have an office with a large window overlooking the street, where you can see the city waking up in the morning. You've gotten used to this life, to your schedule, to the quiet after hours. That evening comes back to you less and less often. And today, his photo flashed across your feed. Kisa is hugging Masha by the shoulders, Masha has a big belly, and the caption above it reads, "Masha and I are expecting a baby."