We wake up early—I need to stop by the dormitory, and then head to the institute with Katrin. The morning begins with a small but lively argument. For Rebel Girl, I choose blue jeans, which she has already grown to hate, a white blouse, and a warm sweater on top. As soon as she sees my outfit, her eyes widen in horror, and the theatrics begin.
"Are you serious?!" Her voice rings out like a taut string. "Do you want me to look like a retired grandma?!"
Katrin protests so loudly that I think I might go deaf. Her screams about what she will do to me for putting her through such torment echo through the apartment. But I stand firm, unyielding as a rock. Eventually, she gives in, though not without a promise of revenge.
"You'll regret this," she hisses as she ties the laces on her boots.
I merely smirk. Truth be told, I feel a little sorry for her. I could have given her a dress with the same sweater, but I decide not to "humiliate" her in front of her classmates. Though, honestly, I am curious how they will react to her new look. And, of course, to my changes.
When we reach the dormitory, I leave Katrin waiting outside. Opening the door, I see Dima sitting on the bed, engrossed in his phone.
"Hey," I greet him, trying to sound neutral.
"Well, look who's back," he replies, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
"I haven't been gone that long," I shoot back, starting to pack the things I need into my backpack.
I plan to come back that evening to collect the rest of my belongings. Most of my things have already been moved to Katrin's apartment. We have grown accustomed to living together, and I absolutely love it.
"Are you staying long, or are you going to run off to her again?" His tone is so disdainful that I feel anger bubbling up inside me.
"She has a name, you know. It's Katrin. If you've developed amnesia in the two weeks I've been gone and started forgetting the names of girls you chased after a month ago—or kissed on my bed three weeks ago—let me remind you," I say, barely containing my irritation.
"Oh, listen to you! Spend a little time with her, and suddenly you've got a backbone," he sneers, standing up from the bed and walking toward me. His voice carries a clear threat.
But I'm not the same person I used to be. I have changed during that time, and his intimidation tactics no longer work on me.
"What's the matter? Upset that she's having fun with me and not you? Or is it just envy?" I know I have hit a nerve, but I don't care.
Suddenly, he swings his fist at me, his face contorted with rage, his eyes burning like coals, and his lips trembling with anger. In that moment, time seems to slow down. I feel a cold sweat run down my back, and my heart pounds so loudly that its beat echoes in my ears. But instinct takes over—my hand shoots forward, grabbing his wrist. I feel the tension in his muscles and the heat of his skin.
His breathing becomes heavy and ragged, and a flicker of fear crosses his eyes as I, without hesitation, strike him in the stomach. My fist lands squarely, sinking into the soft tissue, and I feel his body convulse in pain. Dima doubles over like a crumpled piece of paper and collapses to the floor with a muffled groan. His face turns pale, his lips twisted in a grimace of agony. He tries to inhale, but his body shudders uncontrollably.
I stand over him, feeling the adrenaline coursing through my veins, my hands trembling slightly. Fragments of thoughts race through my mind: What if I hadn't reacted in time? What if he had struck first? But now he lies before me, helpless and weak, and I can't shake the strange mix of guilt and relief that washes over me. A heavy silence fills the room, broken only by his labored breathing and the fading thud of my heartbeat. I didn't want this, but in that moment, I had no choice. And as I look at him, I realize—everything has changed. An invisible line has been drawn between us, one that can never be erased.
"Don't you dare talk about my girl like that. I never speak that way when you two are together. And if you ever try to settle things with your fists again, don't blame me for what happens. I won't let you treat me like I'm nothing or talk to me with such disrespect. Understood?"
Dima only grunts in response—a low, hoarse sound escaping his clenched lips. His face remains pale, beads of sweat forming on his forehead as if he's just finished an exhausting run. He clutches his stomach, his fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt as though trying to contain the pain, to keep it from spreading through his body. His eyes hold a mix of fear, anger, and humiliation, but the earlier fury has faded.
I feel something shift inside me—pity, perhaps, or the realization that it's over. My heart, which has been racing with adrenaline just moments ago, begins to calm, and I know I don't want this to go any further. I don't want things to escalate.
Taking a deep breath, I reach out my hand. My palm is damp but steady. I don't think he will hit me, push me away, or ignore me—I just want to give him a chance to stop.
He looks at my hand, then back at me, and something flickers in his eyes.
"Come on, let me help you up."
"I don't need your help," he mutters, waving me off, but his eyes betray his hurt and anger.
"Stop playing the hero and take my hand," I say, trying to sound firm, though a note of impatience slips through.
Finally, reluctantly, he reaches out, as if afraid to reveal his weakness. I grip his cold, trembling hand and help him to his feet. His body feels heavy, as though he's carrying not just the pain but something greater, something invisible. Step by step, we make it to the bed, and he sinks onto it with relief, as if shedding an unbearable weight.
"She's the one who taught you to hit like that, huh?" he mumbles, and I feel the shadow of her name lurking in his words.
He's talking about her, but not directly, as if afraid to say her name out loud. This time, though, there's no sarcasm or bitterness in his voice—just a strange, almost painful sincerity.
"No, Katrin didn't teach me how to fight," I reply, trying to stay calm, though something inside me twinges.
"Then who did? That was a pretty good punch," he says, attempting a smile but immediately clutching his stomach in pain. I can't help but laugh, though it quickly dies when I see him wince. His face contorts, and my amusement gives way to a faint sense of guilt.
"Three idiots taught me. Well, one at first, and then two more later," I answer vaguely, avoiding the details. The memories of those days are like old scars—they no longer hurt, but touching them still sends a chill through me.
"What do you mean?" His eyes burn with curiosity, as if he's trying to solve a puzzle.
"I got into two fights. First, one idiot beat me up, but then I got him back. Well, alcohol and anger helped with that," I pause, feeling a lump rise in my throat. "Then two other guys thought they could take me on together. But, thanks to what I'd learned, I managed to handle them. That's the story," I finish, trying to sound indifferent, though the memories still churn inside me.
"All in one day?" His eyes widen so much I almost laugh again. He looks as though I've just told him about some incredible feat.
"No," I smile, feeling the tension ease. "It happened at different times. About a week and a half apart."
"You're something else, neighbor!" Dima's admiration is genuine, and there's real warmth in his voice. "Tell me more about what's happened to you since then," he asks, his eyes filled with genuine curiosity.
But I don't get a chance to answer. My phone rings, and I hear her voice.
"Where are you? Do you want me to stand here forever waiting for you?" Her shout is so loud I have to pull the phone away from my ear for a moment. There's irritation in her voice, but I know there's more behind it—worry, maybe even fear.
"I'm on my way, baby. Just wait a little longer."
"Fine, I'm waiting," she relents, and I feel the tension in her voice ease slightly.
I end the call and slip the phone into my pocket, feeling my heart beat a little faster. The whole time, Dima has been watching me closely, his eyes full of questions, but he remains silent.
"You two have quite the relationship. I didn't think Katrin would let you call her that," he says, his eyebrows rising. It seems his level of surprise only grows with each passing minute.
"She lets me get away with a lot," I reply with a conspiratorial wink, a faint smile tugging at my lips. "Alright, I've got to go, or I'll be late."
Dima grabs my arm, and I feel his fingers tremble slightly.
"Are you coming back, or are you leaving for good?" There's a note of anxiety in his voice, as if he's afraid of being left alone.
"I'll be gone for good soon," I answer, but before leaving, I decide to add, "If I were you, I'd go to class today. It's going to be very interesting—I'll be there, and so will my girlfriend. Oh, and by the way, she's got a new wardrobe too."
His eyes widen again, and he scrambles to get dressed, as if caught by a sudden gust of wind. I sigh, grab my backpack, and leave the room. My heart feels heavy, but I know I've done the right thing. Katrin is waiting for me outside, and the moment I see her, I feel the tension begin to melt away. Deep down, a small spark of hope flickers—the hope that everything will be alright.
"Is everything okay?" my girlfriend asks, noticing my somber expression.
"Everything's fine. Let's go, or we'll be late."