From what I hear, I jump to my feet as if struck by electricity. My whole body burns with a wave of panic and confusion. My heart skips a beat, then starts pounding wildly in my chest, as if it wants to break free, like a bird trapped in a cage. I can't believe what just comes out of his mouth. He wants me and some other girl to go on a date? These words echo in my mind, refusing to fit into my consciousness. My thoughts dart around like wild birds, hitting the walls of my skull chaotically, finding no way out. What's next? Sharing him on the same bed? The thought makes me feel sick to my stomach. My chest tightens, as if something inside knots into a hard ball, and rage and hurt throb in my temples like a warning bell.
This crosses all boundaries. The boundaries of respect, trust, human warmth. So abruptly and harshly, like a spit in the soul, that I want to scream, howl, tear the air apart with my hands. I had thought he let go of the past and was moving with me into the future. I believed in it so sincerely, cherished the hope. I imagine a picture: how we, holding hands, walk through hardships, through pain, but together. Building something real, deep, strong. But it seems it's only me who imagines it. Only me. Alone in my hopes, in my "we," which exists only in my head. And Maxim, meanwhile, coldly plans how to continue his intricate revenge. Cold, calculating, with a gaze that radiates emptiness. Not giving me even a chance to truly believe him.
"Did I understand correctly — a threesome date?" I raise my voice, almost screaming through clenched teeth, feeling the anger rolling inside my chest, burning from within, ready to tear everything apart.
"Yes. And what exactly bothers you?" His voice is calm, indifferent, as if we are talking not about my feelings but about ordering coffee at a café. That tone shatters something in me, the last thing.
I turn away, unable to bear his gaze. My cheeks burn from traitorous tears sliding down. I am at the limit, on the edge, a step away from exploding, from the point of no return.
"Katrin, what's wrong? Well, if you want, we can go together?" He speaks like someone who doesn't understand pain, doesn't notice the scream in my eyes. As if in front of him is not a human but just an irritated shadow.
"Why are you doing this?" I ask, sobbing, unable to hold back my emotions any longer. My voice trembles like a taut string, ready to snap from a single wrong word.
"Katrin, I didn't suggest anything like that. Threesome or two — what's the difference anyway?" Maxim says, standing up and stepping toward me. His voice carries only confusion and dryness, nothing more.
I hold my hand out like a barrier, as if trying to protect not only my body but also my soul, showing that I don't want, can't let him closer anymore. Right now I am in pain, scared, and hurt.
"Why?" I ask again, looking him in the eyes, searching for even a shadow of remorse but finding only a cold wall of misunderstanding. "What else do you want from me?" I step closer, throwing down a challenge, not looking away. "Do you want me to get on my knees?" I say almost in a whisper, on the edge, no longer able to hold back the storm of pain inside, ready to destroy the last remains of my dignity just to make him understand.
I begin to lower myself slowly, as if sinking deeper with every second, doing what I suggest to him. It's not just humiliation — it's a scream of pain, a cry of a soul that doesn't know how else to reach him. Maxim realizes I am about to kneel before him, and at that moment, as if awakening, he rushes to me, grabs my shoulders, and starts lifting me, putting me back on my feet.
When I am standing again, barely holding myself up, he shakes me slightly, as if trying to knock out this madness from me, to bring me back, into myself.
"Pull yourself together. What happens to you in a few minutes? What nonsense are you doing?" His voice trembles, but he tries to keep control, as if still holding everything under his cold calculation.
"And what are you doing, Max? Going back to old ways, huh?" I say with cold audacity in my voice and burning pain inside.
"What are you talking about?" He really seems not to understand, or pretends not to. Which is worse — I don't know.
"I hurt you in the past, but are you really ready to go to such vile lengths because of that?" I whisper, each word cutting my throat, leaving a taste of blood and bitterness.
Rebel Boy is silent. His face freezes like stone, but I don't stop drilling him with my gaze, trying to find an answer, to reach the truth.
"Who is she?" I ask almost in a whisper, but my voice carries a steel-like crack, like metal before it breaks. "Probably that Alice from the club. Yes, I guessed right?"
"What does she have to do with our date?" He continues to be confused. His face becomes harder, more impenetrable, as if he puts on a mask of indifference to hide from my words.
"Now we sit on the couch, and you don't get up from it until you explain to me what just happens," he almost commands roughly, as if wanting to take control again. But it is already too late. Something inside me already breaks, beyond repair.
Stepping back from him, I do what he wants — I sit on the couch. The movement is difficult, as if my body resists obedience, as if even my muscles are filled with protest. My heart beats unevenly, erratically, as if trying to break free, while everything inside contracts from anxiety, confusion, and a dull irritation, like a quiet inner scream. It is a mix of hurt and fear — that same vague feeling, hiding deep in the soul, unwilling to come out, yet desperately making itself known.
Max watches me closely, never taking his eyes off me, as if he's checking every movement for a hint of escape. His gaze is heavy, controlling, like a spotlight highlighting the slightest deviation from what's allowed. I feel my skin bare under this look, stripped of protection, and my breathing becomes uneven. Only when Rebel Boy is convinced I'm not planning to run do his shoulders relax slightly, but the tension doesn't leave — it just quiets down a bit in anticipation. He sits next to me. His proximity is palpable, the tension between us almost tangible, like static electricity sparking between our bodies.
"Why is it a bad idea to go on a date with three people? What's offensive about it to you?" he asks, as if he really doesn't understand what hurt me.
Max speaks as if discussing something completely neutral, mundane, not what just pierced straight into my heart. As if what's painful for me is ordinary and unremarkable for him. His calm only fuels the storm inside me even more.
"You said you forgave me, but now you act like you haven't. You'd better tell me about it," I snap at him, my voice trembling as I try to hold the storm inside.
I don't want to sit here alone, feeling cornered, answering his questions as if under interrogation. It's unfair. I feel like I'm in a cage — under observation, judged, with no right to vulnerability.
"I forgave you. And I think we discussed everything back then, before our first time together after all those years," he says calmly, as if trying to ease the growing conflict between us. His voice sounds almost emotionless, as if he's observing this conversation from a distance, and I alone burn in this fire.
"Fine. But then, if you forgave me, why do you torment me now by suggesting I share you with some girl? Do I look like the kind of woman who would share her love with someone else?" I ask him directly, looking straight into his eyes, feeling the rage pulsing in my chest, mixed with pain and disappointment. The words burst out as if each one is a cry from my soul, demanding to be heard, understood, protected.
"What nonsense did you just say? How could you think that?" he stands up sharply, his face twisted with a surge of emotions, now on the edge himself. I see irritation, shock, and maybe even hurt fighting inside him. His movements are abrupt, as if shaking off the weight of mistrust that suddenly lands on him.
"You said it yourself — a date with three," I remind him, trying to stay firm, even though everything inside me tightens. Reality itself seems to start tearing at the seams — where is truth, where is lie, where are my feelings, and where is his logic?
"Sorry, darling, but you're an idiot," Max admits, crossing his arms over his chest. His voice sounds tired but with a hint of condescension, as if he's not angry but simply doesn't understand how I could come to such a conclusion. He looks at me like a spoiled child, and I feel like a live wire, on the verge of a short circuit.
"What?" I don't immediately understand this insult. The question slips out almost in a whisper, with a touch of vulnerability. The word "idiot" strikes like a whip — not loud, but precise.
"I meant the third would be Mary. What, the hell, other women did you have in mind?" His words come with unexpected ease, as if he's been holding them back all this awkward conversation. He speaks like a man tired of explaining the obvious, and in that there's so much unspoken irritation that it almost physically hurts me.
Now I understand why his reaction seems so incomprehensible. And indeed — I realize I'm a complete fool. I almost accused him of the worst — wanting to betray me, something he never even thought of. I feel ashamed and awkward, and this awkwardness hits me like a heavy weight. My cheeks burn, not with anger, but with realization. Inside, everything wilts suddenly, like a flower scalded with boiling water.
"All this makes me want coffee. I'll go make it," Max says, and without waiting for a response, he leaves the living room and heads to the kitchen. His steps are measured, but I feel the air around us still tense, soaked with unspoken words and lingering misunderstandings. And in this silence, after he leaves, I remain alone, facing the storm within myself.