Chapter Text
She wasn’t wearing her lipstick. At least, not the red one he once said looked like cherry vodka. Her hands trembled too much to draw the line even if she wanted to. The ashtray was full, the wine bottle empty. Ryman sat cross-legged on the peeling kitchen tile, reading a letter she’d written weeks ago but never sent. “Maybe we could talk again sometime,” it said. She laughed, or cried. She couldn’t tell anymore. The echo of his name still thumped inside her ribs like dirty shoes in a washing machine — loud, useless, and stuck on repeat.
It hadn't always been this way.
Lights were dim in the smoky bar, where she usually spent her nights to brainstorm ideas for her novel, watching each character of the bar in order to discover their life stories. This time, she wore a cheap dress she borrowed from a friend.
She adjusted the cheap dress for the fifth time, itching where the seams scraped her skin. She didn’t feel beautiful. She felt like a girl playing dress-up in someone else’s life. A man glanced at her, then quickly away, toward someone prettier, easier. She clutched her notebook under the bar, mouthing sentences as she wrote.
The bartender took care of her, tried to redirect a good man towards her. But they wouldn't. “You look like someone who reads Sylvia Plath,” the bartender sighed after all the hard work, setting a glass of water near her. “I look like someone who should be writing,” she replied with a crooked smile.
She watched people laugh with their friends, couples pressing knees under tables. She watched the bartender wipe down the counter for the third time. Maybe if she just looked sad enough, someone would ask her name.
After a while, her mediocre make-up loosened, her dress wore down, and her shoes itched her feet. Her heart begged for someone to even try to look at her.
But then someone spotted her across from the room.
He slid into the seat across from her like he belonged there, his leather jacket creaking as he leaned forward. “What are you doing here all alone, sweetheart?” he asked, leaning in, smelling like cheap cologne and stale beer.
“Watching people fall in love,” she answered, startled she’d said it aloud. He chuckled, draping an arm over her chair.
"You writing about me?" She blinked, startled, her pen freezing. "No," she said quickly. "Just… people." He laughed too loud, the kind of laugh that drowned out the music. "People, huh?" he repeated, eyeing the notebook. "You one of those undercover poet types?"
The woman shook her head. "Writer. Trying to be, at least." He took a lazy sip of his beer, eyes still locked on her. "That why you’re here all the time? Watching people like they’re zoo animals?"
"Something like that," she said, more guarded now, pressing her pen to the paper without writing. "You’re not from here."
"Good ear," he smirked. "I move around. Get bored easy." She tried not to let that sting, glancing down at her notebook on the knees. "That must be nice."
"It’s lonely sometimes," he said, more seriously than she expected. For a second, they just looked at each other.
“What’s your name?”
“Ryman,” she said.
“Ryman?” He rolled it over his tongue like wine. “I like that. You Russian?”
“A little. You?”
“A lot,” he grinned. “Sergiy Kuiznetsov. Come on, I’ve got a couch that’s more comfortable than this bar stool.”
Ryman had never felt so lucky. It was foolish, she knew, to believe in fate, but when Sergiy looked at her like that, like she was someone worth noticing, she let herself believe. Just for one night. She smiled like she hadn’t in years, cheeks aching, heart thrumming like a bird too fast for its cage.
They drank. To strangers, to stories, to the universe colliding in just the right way. He toasted to her eyes, and she laughed too hard at a joke that wasn’t even funny. The bar blurred into a trail of city lights, and then the elevator, and then his hallway.
By the time they stumbled into his apartment, her laughter was quieter, more hesitant. He kissed her before she could say another word, and she let him, gripping his collar like she could keep him forever.
Clothes fell without ceremony. His hands were warm; hers trembled. They sank into the sheets like people trying to forget the world existed.
Now the sunlight reflected on the covers, and Ryman woke up, squirting her eyes to see Sergiy already out of bed and buttoning his shirt. “You’re leaving?” she mumbled, voice dry from wine and disappointment. Sergiy was halfway through tying his shoes, not even glancing back. “Text me sometime,” he said, and that was it. She sat there, blanket pulled up to her chin like armor, watching the door click shut behind him.
Ryman was left alone. Her head hurt from the alcohol, and she pulled the covers closer to her chest. Her dress was on the ground. Now she had to leave.
The walk back home was filled with creeps stalking her, probably because of the dress. They catcalled her, however she managed to run to her home and lose them.
A group of men lingered at the corner of the block, their voices loud, their laughter sharp and hungry. One of them whistled low.
She lowered her head, quickened her pace. Her arms crossed tightly over her chest, like maybe she could fold herself out of sight.
Footsteps shuffled behind her. Her breath caught. She didn’t dare look back.
She ran.
Ugly panic in the form of pounding feet and stumbling steps. Her ankle twisted as one of her heels bent sideways, snapping with a pathetic crack. She ripped it off mid-run, then the other, clutching them like broken limbs as she turned the corner to her apartment block.
Only when she slammed the door behind her and locked it three times over did she collapse onto the floor. Her heart still raced like it was trying to escape her chest.
She looked into her wardrobe, searching for anything to wear instead of that cheap dress. All she could find were shirts, hoodies, skirts. She recalled his last words before he rushed to work: "Text me sometime." So she did, hesitating and scared, but she did. Ryman started with a simple, "Hi, how are you?" and tried to show more bravery like those girls from tv, "Let's meet after work."
It was a mistake. She deleted it. "Do you wanna talk? About last night?"
She could barely send it.
She stared at the screen for a while, waiting, hoping for the three little dots to appear. They didn’t. Her phone stayed silent, cold in her palm. Minutes stretched like hours. Eventually, she set it face down on the table, as if that would stop her from checking it every five seconds.
She made tea. She poured half and let the rest go cold. She smoked. She tried music, then silence. Anything to fill the heavy quiet. Then came the mornings, gray and quiet. Then nights, darker and longer.
Days passed. He didn’t answer. He didn’t see her texts. Maybe he was busy, after all he was at work every day...
She tried to focus on her novel instead. But words were coming with difficulty and ideas wouldn't come out.
She abandoned it. She ripped a page from her notebook, scribbling down a couple words she thought sounded better. She changed her approach, and the girl decided to write him a love letter. Maybe he'll read them and reconsider.
A single love letter turned into ten, then twenty, then thirty, all taking different approaches.
Nostalgic. “Do you remember how you smiled at me that night?”
Hoping. “I still think your laugh could fix me.”
Begging. “Please, I just want to talk. Please.”
Many more drafts thrown on the ground, the notebook now hollow. She even used already written pages to write for him.
"I hate you. I hate you. I hate how much I love you."
She re-read the letters like scripture. Some she whispered to herself. Others she tore in half. One she kissed. Then chose the best one. The one which sounded the best. The one which made her feel like she expressed her love to Sergiy. She tucked the best letter into her hoodie pocket.
"Maybe if I’d worn better lipstick, you’d have stayed."
The city didn’t know it had anything to fear. But maybe it would. Maybe he'd finally read something she'd written.
It was so good, she had to deliver it to him. No, she wasn't afraid. Ryman dressed in her usual clothes, a dark hoodie and a green skirt. Oh, when he would read the letters! He would even ask her to marry him.
So she decided to search more about him online to find where he worked. Opening the computer, she read about Sergiy Kuiznetsov. Apparently he was an office Manager. She also found the address thanks to a website.
But for a while, she was stalking his social media. Monitoring every like. Showing up at the bar to accidentally meet him. But she knew he didn't go there often.
She didn't run, she dashed to his workplace. It was going to be so great, they would be together. The workplace was close, she could feel it. She reached the entrance, asking local workers for Sergiy Kuiznetsov. They redirected her to a fancy man, his dark hair slicked back and grinning.
This was her chance, she approached him–
"Hey, beautiful," he said to another girl. He kissed her neck like he used to kiss Ryman’s shoulder. Laughed the same laugh. Said the same lazy compliment. Ryman didn’t cry. Not yet. She just walked away. One foot, then the next.
The scream stayed in her throat the whole walk home. He moved his arm around her waist and invited her to his car. He passed by Ryman, barely noticing her, checking her out. His brows furrowed with an unease passing over his face. She wasn't his taste anymore.
She wanted to cry. She wanted to run. She wanted to scream. Instead, she walked away forcefully. She didn't remember how she got home, but she staggered into the bathroom just in time. The moment she collapsed in front of the toilet, her body lurched, and she retched violently. Ryman gasped between heaves, her entire body trembling. She wanted to stop crying, stop shaking, stop feeling. She let out a broken whimper, her fingers clutching the cold porcelain as if it were the only thing keeping her grounded.
He hurt her.
No, he destroyed her.
Again, she kept thinking he’d text. Maybe he lost his phone. Maybe he was busy. Maybe he was scared too.
At night, she’d dream of him. Not even the night they met, but better nights, ones that never existed. He’d knock on her door in the rain, hair dripping, hands trembling. “I’m sorry,” he'd say. “I didn’t know how to be loved.” In the dream, she forgave him. He kissed her like she was made of light. And then she’d wake up. Alone, sweating, sometimes with his name on her lips. Sometimes she stayed in bed all day, hoping sleep would bring him back again.
He once kissed her on the forehead without asking.
He once asked what her favorite book was and actually listened. He once laughed so hard he choked on his drink and she thought: this is what happiness looks like.
The dishes stacked in the sink. Her laundry remained untouched. Wine bottles lined the windowsill like broken soldiers waiting to be buried. Some mornings, she didn’t even bother getting dressed.
The computer stayed open, its screen dimmed, the cursor blinking over a half-finished sentence in her novel: “She waited for the storm to pass, but it never did.”
Time passed, but she stopped counting in days. She counted in cigarette butts. Coffee mugs left cold. Unsent messages.
She started writing a longer letter. A final one. She rewrote it every night with shaking hands.
It had to be perfect. It had to explain everything.
Maybe then, he’d understand what he’d broken.
"If you’d just stayed, I would’ve written you a thousand happy endings. But now, I only have one."
The dark alley stank of rust, damp concrete and old cigarettes. Ryman pulled her hoodie lowering, keeping her head down as she stepped on a shattered bottle, following the instructions of a shady man from the bar.
She passed two doors before stopping at the one with a red "R" scratched to it. Her hand hovered over it before she knocked rather quietly.
A narrow slot scraped open. Sharp eyes watched her. "What's the code?" it asked.
"The owl sees all debts paid."
The slit shut. Bolts clicked. The door creaked open just for her to step through. The inside smelled like sweat, oil and heat. Tables were cluttered with parts, crates, and grease-slicked tools. One guy was sawing off a barrel with headphones in. Another tested a blade’s weight with eyes that never left her.
"How can an honest merchant like me help you?" a man asked, walking towards Ryman while wiping off the sweat from his forehead. "GG-17. Modified. Extended Mag. Personalized." she said quietly.
"Who's asking?" he inquired, raising his palm up to request the payment.
She reached into her bag and pulled out a wad of rubles, worn and creased, "Someone tired of waiting to be rescued."
"Sentimental type, huh?" he snorted, counting the money without looking away.
He pulled a drawer and laid it out: matte black, small but heavy in the hand. The GG-17, a customized piece with a scratched-out serial number and a crude extended magazine welded on. The slide bore a single sticker, cracked and faded, of a pink cartoon broken heart.
“This one’s moody. Kicks harder than she should. Just like a broken girl with something to prove.” Ryman took it with both hands. Cold, perfect. “She’s got a safety issue,” he added.
“Like she might shoot just for being looked at wrong.”
“So do I,” Ryman murmured.
He smirked. “No refunds.”