Buda

The relationship was vivid, stormy, and passionate. You met Grisha long before he became popular. You were there for him, lending him money to record his album. He apologized, begged you to believe in him, saying that without you, he would have ended up with nothing. You were his muse. His music. You believed in him, rejoicing with every new listener. You were happy.

Grisha became more popular. Numerous concerts, album recordings, shows, and interviews. You stayed home with your laptop, teaching online lessons. And he moved forward. At first, during every show, he thanked you, saying he was nobody without you, that you were the one who believed in him, and that's why success came his way. Time passed. He started staying at the studio longer and longer. You stopped talking for days on end. He didn't ask how your day went, and you just stopped caring. You waited, knowing how important his achievements were to him.

A chair broke. Every time you went to the kitchen, you tripped over it. When Grisha came home early, you asked him to fix it. He said something like, "Fine, not now, I'm writing lyrics to send to Temych."

Arguments started. You felt neglected. He wasn't home; he was at the studio with friends. He returned at night, if not toward dawn. He smoothed over every scandal with flowers and jewelry. You forgave him, believing he would change, even just a little. But another week passed. The chair was still broken, and he came home late. You hadn't spoken for four days. He eats what you prepared for him in silence, staring at his phone. You wash the dishes, your heart filled with pain and bitterness. He is right there, yet so far away. Inhale, exhale. You turn off the water, but it still drips—slowly, but enough to make you feel lonely.

— Grish, put the phone away. Look at me.

He rubs the bridge of his nose and reluctantly turns his head toward you.

— What?

— Haven't you noticed that we haven't spoken for a week? And that I asked you to fix the chair a month ago?

He shrugs and sighs. He's tired of your reproaches. You're always wanting something from him.

— Stop it, okay? I'm recording an album, in case you forgot. You know that.

— Yes, I know. Every day, every evening, every morning, it's the same thing! — You throw the towel on the floor. — I'm tired. All day long, I see the same spoons, the same cups, the same water. And you're at the studio. Everything is as always. But us... we're already gone.

Grisha sighs with annoyance, his cheeks visibly tightening.

— Do you want to start another scandal because I'm working for us? Are you serious right now?

— This isn't a scandal, Grisha, this is our last conversation. I'm leaving. — You pick up the towel and throw it onto the table in front of him. — I'm leaving not because you work a lot, but because you've stopped noticing me. I feel like I've become part of the decor. I've tripped over this chair so many times, asked you to fix it, and you just forgot and act like everything is fine.

With a quick gesture, you wipe away the sudden tears and turn around. By the wardrobe in the hallway stands a bag with things for the first few days; you'll take the rest later. The funniest part is that he didn't even notice the bag. He rubs the bridge of his nose.

— And where do you think you're going?

— Somewhere where I am valued and noticed. Somewhere where you aren't, Grisha.

With a loud thud, you close the front door from the outside and leave. You go to a friend's place for a while. In a fit of rage, Grisha grabs a wet spoon from near the sink and hurls it at the wall. Anger. Resentment. He watches through the window as you get into a taxi and drive away from him. He goes to bed. He hesitates. He feels an emptiness in his soul. He decides to text you: "If I fix the chair, will you come back?". He feels miserable and in pain without you. He loves you.

Йоу