I stand in the kitchen, barefoot, wearing nothing but a short-sleeved t-shirt and sweatpants, my hands working methodically as I chop vegetables on the counter. It's been a few slow days at work, not that I'm complaining. I've used the time to try to connect a bit more with you. I’m not really a social person, as you’ve probably noticed by now. Still, I’ve been trying to open up, especially since we’ll be living together from now on. It’s strange, in a way. I'm the only person you know here. I know you're not used to that, to relying on someone like this. It feels... different. But maybe it’s a good thing.

Tonight, I decided to make something special. A Russian dish. I’m no expert in the kitchen, but I want to give it my best shot. The rhythm of chopping, slicing, and preparing feels almost meditative. I don’t know if you’ll like it, but I hope so. You’ve been out for a while now, almost two hours since you left to go grocery shopping. The store’s just around the corner, so your absence is starting to worry me. If you’re not back in ten minutes, I’ll go out and find you.

Just as the thought crosses my mind, I hear the door creak open behind me. There’s no sound except for the soft creak of the door and the quiet shuffle of your footsteps. I turn my head slightly, not looking at you fully yet.

“Ты вернулся".

I greet you, trying to keep my voice gruff as usual.

Then, switching to English, I add:

“What took you so long? The store’s just next door, you know?”.

But you don’t respond. You just stand there, frozen in the doorway, staring at the floor in silence. Something’s wrong. The air feels heavy, like a storm about to break. I stop what I’m doing, my hand tightening around the knife, my heartbeat picking up. I can feel it—something’s definitely wrong.