Returning home is like standing before Schrödinger’s box: uncertain, suspended between possibilities. You never know what awaits inside until you open the door. The cat remains mysteriously alive and simultaneously dead, bound by the enigmatic rules of fate until you dare to look.
Den knew exactly what he'd see once he switched on the warm lights of his apartment—the brightly colored walls, the gentle citrus fragrance of orchids that Mary refused to keep, and his solitary reflection mirrored in the glossy surface of the black lacquered piano they'd once tried learning together. As long as the apartment remained dark, Den imagined the cat still breathing softly in the polished blackness of the Yamaha.
Throughout his life, Den had longed to escape the weight of decisions made by others—his parents, his wife, his girlfriend. Now he was finally free, possessing unlimited time to compose poetry or master the piano keys, but this freedom brought an unbearable loneliness. His train approached the South-West metro station, and although home was still one stop further, Den activated the paid profile promotion on Tinder and got out into the Moscow spring.
Spring in Moscow didn't mean lush green trees or joyful bird tweets. Instead of birdsong, the tweeting came from car tires, slowly grinding the brown snow into slushy. "What a miserable gift for International Women's Day," Den thought bitterly.
He headed toward Chaikhona, the nearest restaurant to the metro. Although "Chaikhona" meant "Teahouse," tea wasn't its specialty any more than Moscow's spring resembled a true spring. Instead, the place was known far better for its hearty servings of meat and rice. Inside Den noticed at least three couples with flowers celebrating March 8th, while most of these couples were more engaged by their phones than each other. Den didn’t differ much from them. He promptly sent seven identical congratulatory messages to women who liked him at Tinder, and started looking at their photos.
Among them all, Diana stood apart. She cradled the cat in her arms, her hair cascading toward the ebony fur of the Maine Coon, merging effortlessly like waterfalls surrendering to the sea. All four of their eyes were locked onto Den. What Schrödinger overlooked is that the cat doesn’t always wait for you to look inside the box—instead, it watches you, deciding whether you’re alive or already gone.
Diana’s response to his generic greeting was casual yet intrigued.
"Hi! Tell me, what do you do for a living? And how do you spend your weekends?"
"I run a kids’ summer camp and I'm starting a private school for my daughter. I also like playing the piano and writing poetry. What about you?"
Diana’s interest was piqued. "Wow! Those are two pretty unusual things. What ages do you take at the camp?"
"After first grade," Den responded, then asked, "Do you have kids?"
Diana nodded—virtually. "Yes, I have a six-year-old son. He’ll be starting school next year."
"Oh, same age as my daughter! Where are you planning to enroll him?"
Diana with warm. "We’ll send him to a nearby elementary school. There's a wonderful teacher we've already gotten to know. 😁 My son is quite stubborn—you really have to know how to handle him, or he won’t study at all. 🙈"
Den was curious. "What do you mean by that?"
"He’s strong-willed. If you push him, he resists. You have to outsmart him. 😂"
Den shifted nervously. "You shouldn’t force him—whether physically or through manipulation. He’s a person, just like you. Imagine if someone forced you into sex on a date, either physically or through manipulation—would you like that?"
Silence.
"Did you disappear?" Den checked.
"I was out walking. 😇 Just heading home now," Diana reappeared.
"Where do you live?" Den asked.
"Near the South-West metro station," Diana typed while still walking.
Den's eyes widened.
"Are you serious? We're basically neighbors! How about dinner at Chaikhona? My treat for Women's Day."
Diana hesitated but agreed. "I usually don’t start dating so quickly, but today my mom is watching my son, and I’m not sure when I’ll have another free evening. I’ll meet you in an hour."
"Perfect! I'll wait for you!" Den replied excitedly.
Den asked the waitress to hold the table and stepped out to buy some flowers and a gift. Did he usually give women flowers on the first date? No. Gifts? Also no. So why was he doing it now? He had no idea. All he knew was that something magical had happened, and he wanted to hold onto this feeling for as long as possible—the same one he often had in childhood.
Moscow in 2019 was a fantastic place for discovering treasures—both material and emotional. Love, flowers, and gifts were easily found at every metro station. Regardless of the weather, metro trains carried lovers toward one another, much like red blood cells delivering oxygen to the heart. It was only fitting that every station housed a flower shop and a gift boutique, ensuring romance was always within reach.
In the underground metro crossing by the flower shop, a peculiar-looking man sat with a synthesizer mounted on massive wheels, allowing him to maneuver it effortlessly, even on staircases. Den had spotted him multiple times over at least five years in different Moscow metro stations, always playing a cacophonic symphony—likely of his own composition. His instrument was a far cry from the sleek black Yamaha waiting for Den at home, and his music was nothing like what Den aspired to play. Yet, the sheer persistence with which he pursued his craft made up for it in its own way. Was he a real musician, or just a projection of Den’s subconscious, reminding him of his true intentions for the evening? Den didn’t stop to consider it.
He bought violet peonies and a silver chain adorned with a white pearl. It's easy to recognize genuine interest—when someone truly cares, their gifts reflect your tastes and desires. But when their feelings wane, you're left with generic tokens or things they secretly wanted for themselves. All Den knew about Diana was that she had a few photos with peonies and another where she wore pearl earrings. All the gifts were placed near the still-warm teapot as Den waited for Diana.
Spotting her at the restaurant was effortless—her violet coat was the perfect match for the peonies he had brought. When Den looked at her, it was as if his vision had sharpened to perfection—every detail etched with stunning clarity. Her crisp jawline, delicate nose, and sharp chin gave her an almost sculpted elegance, accentuated by the sleek fall of her straight hair. She moved with effortless confidence, her dark eyes sweeping the room until they locked onto him.
There are many ways people greet each other on a first date. If the story were set in Japan, Den might bow or offer a small wave. In France, it would likely be la bise—a playful cheek kiss. But in Russia, greetings tend to be more intimate: a warm hug, with the man helping the woman undress her coat—a gesture that sets the stage for fully undressing his lover on future dates. After carefully hanging up Diana’s coat, Den presented her with gifts.
"Is this all for me? How did you know I love peonies?" Diana asked with a wide smile, her eyebrows arching slightly in surprise.
"I just had a feeling they’d suit you."
Her eyes sparkled under the dim lighting of Chaikhona. Her lips, a deep crimson, looked as if she had just sipped from the goblet of a freshly caught prey.
"Do you know your name means the goddess of the moon and the hunt?" Den asked softly.
"That’s kind of poetic," Diana replied playfully.
"What would you like to order?"
"Just a glass of Pinot Grigio. It’s my favorite."
"Two glasses of Pinot Grigio," Den told the waiter.
If you’ve ever seen two people order the same drink at a restaurant, you’d know it’s either a subtle form of manipulation or a sign of influence. Den loved trying new things—it was a way to stretch the boundaries of who he thought he was.
Diana settled comfortably into the narrow, cushioned lounge across from him.
"Tell me about yourself—where do you work? What are your interests?" Den asked.
"I’m an office manager. I do yoga, and I snowboard in winter. You might’ve noticed from my photos. 😊"
"I actually tried snowboarding a couple of weeks ago. It was fun," Den noted.
Well, the date was fun. The snowboarding itself had been a pain in the ass—literally. He’d bruised his tailbone, and to make matters worse, the woman he was with blocked him after he tried to move things forward a little too quickly.
"So tell me," Den said, watching Diana take a slow sip of wine. "How is a woman as beautiful as you still single?"
"There was someone," Diana sighed, swirling her glass. "But we broke up recently. He said he didn’t want to raise another man’s child. A whole year wasted… Where’s your wife?"
"She’s in another part of Moscow. We split up three years ago, but I had a girlfriend after that."
"My son’s heart is still broken," Diana continued. "He can’t forget my ex… Why did your girlfriend leave?"
"She was always afraid I’d go back to my wife. And, well, I took forever to finalize the divorce… and I never proposed," Den admitted.
The conversation was steering in a direction Den barely wanted. The last time, he had ended up in tears on a date—at the theater, watching Love Letters. He couldn't let that happen again. He had only come here to shake off a bad mood, not sink deeper into it.
Quickly, he shifted the topic. "Where do you usually go with your son?"
Diana seemed to catch on to the sudden change but didn’t mind. If anything, she looked pleased. "We love the movies, interactive museums, and parks in the summer. On weekends, we take trampoline classes together. But our favorite thing is spending time with friends—either visiting them or hosting. We bake cookies and cakes while waiting for guests. 😊"
"We love cookies too," Den said with a smile. "We should do meetups with the kids sometime."
Diana’s smile widened. "Exactly! I’m all for it."
"Do I understand correctly that you have a Maine Coon at home?" Den asked.
"Not anymore," Diana replied sadly. "I loved that cat so much. It used to curl up in my bed to keep me warm. It even helped soothe my son's anxiety. But... he turned out to be allergic to fur, so I had to give the cat away to a friend yesterday." She suddenly froze. "Damn! I just remembered—I have my son's allergy pills with me. He needs to take them before bed. I have to go."
"I can walk you," Den offered.
"Not this time," she said with a soft smile. "My mother isn’t ready to see a new man near our house just yet. But I really enjoyed this evening. Such a shame it was so short. Thank you for the peonies… and the pearl."
Every sleep is a small death, every goodbye a farewell. Few things are more painful than helping a woman into her coat, saying "see you soon," all while knowing that moment may never come.
Den recalled a famous Russian poem from 1932, written in the dark days of Stalin's repression:
“With loved ones, never part, hold tight,
Let all your blood in them take root.
And every time, bid them goodbye—
As if forever, though minute.”
Den remained seated at the restaurant when his phone buzzed—someone had messaged him on WhatsApp.
As always with a new chat, WhatsApp displayed its familiar notice: “Messages and calls are end-to-end encrypted. No one outside of this chat can read or listen to them.”
The sender was Mia, a match from Tinder. That alone meant things were progressing—no one gives out their phone number without a certain level of trust.
“I’m reading you on poems.ru right now,” she wrote. “Your love lyrics feel so familiar and cozy, mmm. Makes me wonder… would you read them aloud to me in person?”
Den seized the opportunity. “In person? Want to have a call? Or should I come over?”
Mia’s reply carried a touch of regret. “I can’t come until Tuesday—no one to watch the little one. Unless… you come to me.”
“Are you far?” Den asked.
“Vernadsky 92,” she replied.
Without hesitation, he responded, “Want me to come over now?”
“Definitely!” Mia confirmed.
“Give me your apartment number,” Den said, adding quickly, “And tomorrow, you’ll get a steamy poem. 💋”
Mia sent the details.
Den’s thoughts shifted slightly. “Should I bring massage oil?”
“Mmm... sure :)” she replied, playful yet inviting.
Curiosity got the better of him. “Tell me about your husband.”
Mia’s response was candid. “He’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. He’s on a business trip right now… planning a ‘gang’ for me on Thursday.”
“‘Gang’? What’s that?” Den asked.
“Gang-bang,” she clarified casually. “A particular kind of fun—one woman, lots of men.”
“Oh, okay,” Den replied, then chuckled. “Guess I won’t ask what he thinks about this. 😂”
“Smart man,” Mia teased. “Clever, you rogue.”
Lost in conversation, Den hadn’t noticed where his steps had taken him. He was now near the Church of Saint Michael the Taxiarch—a place that felt like a contradiction in itself.
Religion, at its core, preached kindness, faithfulness, and trust. Yet Taxiarch meant warrior. Adding to the irony, the church stood on a street named after a renowned Russian scientist who had dismissed religion as primitive thinking, incompatible with science. And yet, he had also acknowledged religious feelings as a higher form of creative expression.
The surreal contrast deepened further: one side of the church faced a theater, while the other looked directly toward Mia’s house.
As desire stirred within him, Den hesitated at the threshold of Mia’s house. Was it deceitful to see multiple women at once? Was it betrayal to share a bed with another while still haunted by the memory of someone else? The emptiness of his apartment loomed in his mind, a shadow of solitude he dreaded. And so, led by the contradiction of the Taxiarch—his guardian with a blood-consecrated sword—he stepped forward, crossing the entrance into Mia’s world.
#2 - The Illusion of Love: How Control Tightens Its Grip
The morning sun streamed through the open curtains, its golden rays caressing Mia's Mongolian eyes. Light draped itself over her strong, man-like figure but hesitated at the delicate rise of her pointed breasts, their large areolas left untouched by the dawn’s embrace.
I love this story very much. There is no limit, no rule, no judgement, no right or wrong. Everyone is beautiful the ways they explore and feel. Their actions are so innocent there's purity in every thought and action. You can't help but love all these people in the story.