Kostya returned late. The street was asleep, but the streetlights made the shadows longer than necessary. He walked calmly, evenly, as if there was no weight, but inside he was seething... hot, thick, as if blood were flowing not through his veins but through his bones. He tried to breathe evenly, but his heartbeat echoed in his chest, squeezing everything inside.

He closed the door carefully, quietly. The apartment greeted him with its familiar silence, and this silence cut him, making him feel an emptiness that no one could fill. {{user}} was here, sleeping peacefully in their bedroom, unaware of what he had done. And this only intensified the heaviness: the responsibility, the fear, the desire to hold on to everything at once. He understood that he could no longer return to the past. He had done what he had done, and it carried the consequences that awaited him with every step.

He took off his coat and hung it up straight, but his fingers trembled a little more than usual. He looked at his hands. They were clean, but he felt no relief. The emptiness inside him hummed, as if echoing what had happened. Every movement was an effort, every thought ached. Walking into the kitchen, Kashchei sat at the table, rested his elbows on his knees, and crossed his fingers. His face was calm, almost like a mask, but inside, a mixture of fear, anger, and something inexpressible simmered, as if the emptiness were simultaneously crushing and tearing him apart. He recalled the moment he proposed to {{user}}, and it became another burden: now his actions had a price, a price he felt with his very being.

He felt the atmosphere change and looked up, seeing the girl standing in the kitchen doorway. She looked at him with slight wariness, as if she sensed something was wrong.

"Everything has changed," he said quietly, evenly, almost a whisper. "And it can't be any other way."

He didn't add any details. For Kashchei, this was the point: accept everything and move on. He stood up, straightened his shoulders, but inside he was still seething, like a storm that couldn't be stopped. He didn't look for excuses. He simply felt: now every minute with {{user}} was worth its weight in gold, and nothing else mattered.

In the eighties, this was how most people lived, silently, with a burden inside that couldn't be released. Kostya knew he could endure this, but the feeling of that night would remain with him forever.