Asya left the office at half past six, as usual. Her job as a logistics specialist at a distribution company demanded constant attention: suppliers, clients, warehouses, documents. Seventy-two thousand a month did not come easily, but Asya was used to responsibility. Four years earlier, it was that very salary that had allowed her to buy a one-room apartment in a new building on the outskirts of the city.
It took her forty minutes to get home by metro and bus. During that time, she managed to think through her plans for the evening, check work messages, or sometimes simply listen to music. Her apartment greeted her with silence and order—exactly the way Asya liked it after a stressful day.
Roman had appeared in her life three months earlier at a corporate event hosted by one of the suppliers. He was tall, with a pleasant smile, and he knew how to keep any conversation going. He worked as a manager at a construction company and told funny stories about clients and colleagues. After the party, he walked Asya home, and then they began seeing each other regularly.
For the first two months, everything went well. Roman invited her to cafés, the cinema, and walks around the city. He never hinted at staying overnight and always warned her about his plans in advance. Asya began to think she had finally met a mature man who understood boundaries.
“Asya, I have a problem,” Roman said at the end of May, when they met after her work. “Major repairs have started at my place. The plumbers have torn everything apart—it’s impossible to live there. Can I stay with you for a week? I’ll hire a crew quickly, and they’ll get everything done fast.”
Asya saw nothing wrong with the request. Adults helped each other in difficult situations. She gave him a spare key, cleared half the wardrobe for him, and even bought extra towels.
Roman moved in on Saturday morning with a large sports bag and a backpack. He had more things than Asya had expected. Besides clothes and shoes, he brought his laptop, tablet, chargers, toiletries, and even a small coffee machine.
“You only have a cezve,” Roman explained, setting the appliance on the kitchen table. “And I’m used to proper coffee in the morning.”
The first few days passed calmly. Roman did not get in her way, cleaned up after himself, and even cooked dinner a couple of times. But by the middle of the week, little things began to appear that made Asya frown.
“Listen, your wardrobe is such a mess,” Roman remarked, rearranging his shirts. “Let me help you put it in order. A man’s perspective can be useful sometimes.”
Asya stood in front of the mirror, getting ready for work, and watched as Roman rearranged her things as he pleased. The blouses that had been hanging in a specific order were now mixed in with his clothes.
“Roman, please don’t touch my things. I have my own system.”
“What system?” Roman laughed. “You yourself said you never have time to sort out the wardrobe. I’m helping, and you’re unhappy.”
Asya said nothing because she was rushing to work. But the unpleasant feeling remained.
A few days later, the criticism of her cooking habits began.
“Asya, is this how you cook?” Roman stood at the stove, stirring her pasta with vegetables. “I would add basil, chili pepper. Yours comes out completely bland.”
“I like the way I cook.”
“Well, tastes differ, of course. But you can always improve something. I’ll teach you, if you want.”
Asya realized she was starting to get irritated. Roman spoke in a friendly tone, but every remark sounded like criticism of her way of life.
In the second week, a new problem appeared—Roman’s mother. Raisa Ivanovna called every evening at eight, speaking loudly and at length. At first, she discussed work matters with her son, then moved on to household issues.
“Romochka, is your girl good around the house?” Asya heard from the kitchen. “Can she cook? Clean? You know how young people are nowadays—they’re only good for going to cafés.”
Roman answered evasively, but one evening Raisa Ivanovna asked him to hand the phone to Asya.
“Dear, I’m Roman’s mother. I want to get to know you better. I heard my son is living with you now.”
“Temporarily,” Asya corrected her. “His apartment is being renovated.”
“Of course, temporarily,” Raisa Ivanovna agreed, though there was a trace of irony in her voice. “And how are you managing with the cleaning? Roman is used to cleanliness. And he likes homemade food, not all those processed things.”
“We’re managing,” Asya replied dryly.
“That’s good. My sister and I are planning to come visit this weekend. We’ll see how my son has settled in.”
Asya wanted to say that she was not ready for guests, but Raisa Ivanovna had already said goodbye and hung up.
“Roman, your mother said she’s coming to visit,” Asya told him when he finished the call.
“Yes, she wants to get to know you properly. It’s nothing terrible. She’ll come for one day.”
“I’m not ready to host guests. I had plans for the weekend.”
“What plans? A manicure?” Roman shrugged. “Reschedule it. Family is more important.”
Asya felt indignation boiling inside her. What family? Roman was living with her temporarily, they had only been dating for three months, and they had no obligations to each other.
On Saturday morning, just as Asya was getting ready for her manicure appointment, the intercom rang. Outside stood two middle-aged women with large shopping bags.
“Mommy’s here!” Roman announced happily, coming out of the shower in a robe. “And this is Aunt Lida, Mom’s sister. They’re staying with us for a couple of days.”
With us. Asya repeated the words silently, feeling her shoulders tense.
Raisa Ivanovna turned out to be a heavyset woman with a decisive look and a habit of speaking loudly. Aunt Lida was smaller in height but no less energetic. Both of them immediately began inspecting the apartment and commenting on the décor.
“Romochka, where do you sleep?” his mother asked, peering into the room.
“On the sofa for now,” Roman replied. “Asya only has one bed.”
“I see,” Raisa Ivanovna nodded, giving the apartment’s owner a meaningful look. “Lida and I will sleep on the sofa. You can make yourself a bed on the floor for now.”
Asya stood in the hallway with her handbag in her hands and could not believe what was happening. The guests were settling themselves in her apartment, assigning sleeping places, and Roman was agreeing with everything.
“Asya, you don’t mind, do you?” Roman asked her. “It’s only for a couple of days.”
“I was planning to go get a manicure,” Asya said, confused.
“Oh, what manicure?” Raisa Ivanovna waved her hand dismissively. “You’d better make some borscht. We’re hungry after the trip. And bake some pies for tea. Family should be welcomed properly.”
Asya looked at Roman, expecting him to defend her or at least explain the situation to his mother. But he only smiled apologetically and shrugged.
The weekend turned into a nightmare. Raisa Ivanovna and Aunt Lida took over the sofa, turned the television up to full volume, and constantly demanded tea and food. They criticized the cleanliness, the furniture arrangement, even her choice of television programs.
“Things are different in our house,” Raisa Ivanovna declared, examining the bookshelves. “Roman is used to cleanliness. And the food needs to be more filling—a man must eat well.”
Roman accepted his mother’s remarks as if they were natural, sometimes nodding in agreement. Asya felt like a stranger in her own apartment.
On Monday morning, the guests finally left. Asya saw them to the door, said goodbye politely, and locked it. At last, long-awaited silence settled over the apartment.
Roman went to work without waiting for a serious conversation. All day, Asya thought about the situation. That evening, she waited for him to return and suggested they discuss what was going on.
“Roman, I need to talk to you. Seriously.”
“About what?” he asked, turning on the coffee machine without even looking at Asya.
“About what’s happening. You’ve been living here for three weeks now. You don’t contribute anything toward the apartment, you don’t buy groceries, and yet you behave like the owner.”
“Like the owner?” Roman turned around, confusion appearing on his face. “I help around the house. I cook sometimes.”
“You criticize my lifestyle, rearrange my things, invite guests without warning. Your mother behaved in my apartment as if it were her own home.”
“Asya, why are you separating everything like that?” Roman laughed, though the laugh came out strained. “We’re living like a family. Everything is shared now. And the apartment has basically been shared for a long time too.”
The last phrase hit her like a blow. Asya was silent for several seconds, processing what she had heard.
“Shared?” she repeated slowly. “Roman, do you pay the mortgage for this apartment?”
“No, but…”
“Do you pay the utility bills?”
“No, but I…”
“Groceries, household supplies, internet—do you pay for any of that yourself?”
“Listen, don’t be so formal. Close people don’t count every penny.”
“Close people don’t declare someone else’s property shared,” Asya said firmly.
Roman turned away toward the window, then looked back with irritation on his face.
“Asya, you’re thinking strangely. I’m staying with you temporarily and helping however I can. And you’re starting some kind of accounting.”
“Temporarily means how long? A week has already passed, then two more. When are you planning to move out?”
“When the renovation is finished.”
“And when will the renovation be finished?”
Roman hesitated and began saying something about contractors, delays with materials, and the need for quality work. Asya listened and understood: there were no specific deadlines and none were planned.
A feeling began growing inside her that was hard to name. It was not anger, not hurt—rather, cold determination. Asya went into the hallway, took the bunch of keys from her coat pocket, removed the spare apartment key from the ring, and returned to the kitchen.
“Roman,” she called calmly.
He turned around. Asya held out the key to him.
“We’re not married, we haven’t signed anything—so there’s nothing to divide. Move out.”
Roman’s face changed instantly. Confusion gave way to outrage.
“What? Asya, have you lost your mind? I explained the situation with the renovation. I have nowhere to go!”
“That is not my problem.”
“How is it not your problem? We’re dating! We’re in a relationship!”
“We go on dates on weekends. No one gave you the right to take charge of my apartment.”
“I’m not taking charge! I’m living here temporarily!”
“You’re acting like the owner. You rearrange my things, criticize my food, invite your relatives. And most importantly, you call my apartment shared.”
Roman took a step closer, his voice growing louder.
“Asya, this isn’t how people behave! I’ve already gotten used to it here, settled in! My things are here, my plans!”
“What plans?”
“Well… we’re together. As a couple. Naturally, we live in one place.”
“I never agreed to that. You asked to wait out the renovation.”
“But we’re developing as a couple!”
“Developing at my expense. In my apartment. On my money.”
Roman raised his voice and began talking about ingratitude and how people should not be treated this way. Asya did not answer. She simply took her phone and began searching her contacts for the district police officer’s number.
“What are you doing?” Roman froze in the middle of the kitchen.
“I’m calling the district officer. There is a person in my apartment who refuses to leave the premises at the owner’s request.”
“Asya, are you serious?” Roman’s voice trembled. “We can settle this like normal people.”
“I already settled it. I gave you the key and told you to move out. But you consider my request a whim.”
Roman rushed to the sofa, sat down, and folded his arms across his chest.
“I’m not going anywhere. Her whim is not grounds for eviction. Let her first prove that I have no right to be here.”
Asya dialed the duty station and calmly gave the address.
“Good evening. There is a man in my apartment who refuses to leave the premises at the owner’s request. Please send the district officer.”
She hung up and looked at Roman. He was sitting on the sofa, but there was noticeably less confidence in his posture.
“You know what, Asya, you’re wrong to do this. I really have nowhere to go today. I’ll move out tomorrow, I swear.”
“Today. Now.”
Twenty minutes later, the doorbell rang. A young district officer in uniform stood at the door, holding a folder of documents.
“Good evening. Was I called regarding unlawful presence in an apartment?”
“Yes, please come in,” Asya stepped aside. “This is my apartment. Here are the ownership documents. And this person refuses to leave.”
The officer carefully examined the certificate of property registration and Asya’s passport, checking the information.
“I see. And you, young man, can you show documents proving your right to live in this apartment?”
Roman got up from the sofa and reached into his pocket for his passport.
“I… It’s complicated to explain. I’m here temporarily. My place is being renovated.”
“Do you have a rental agreement?”
“No, we’re… in a relationship.”
“Temporary registration?”
“No, not that either.”
“Written permission from the owner to reside here?”
Roman looked at Asya, then at the officer.
“It was all verbal. Between close people.”
The officer nodded and wrote something in his notebook.
“I understand. Let me explain the situation without emotion. Cohabitation without official registration, without residency registration, without a contract is not housing—it is temporary presence with the owner’s consent. As soon as that consent is withdrawn, the presence becomes unlawful. The owner has every right to demand that the premises be vacated immediately.”
“And what if my things are here?” Roman pointed to the corner where his sports bag stood.
“Pack your things and leave the apartment. Right now. Otherwise, this will be treated as unlawful self-help.”
At that moment, Roman’s phone rang. His mother’s name appeared on the screen.
“Hello, Mom,” Roman answered, looking at the officer.
“Romochka, how are things? That girl isn’t offending you, is she?”
“Mom, the situation here is complicated…”
Raisa Ivanovna spoke so loudly that everyone present could hear her voice.
“What do you mean, complicated? Did she throw you out? Let her freeze alone now! Spoiled selfish girl!”
Asya took the phone from Roman’s hand.
“Raisa Ivanovna, this is Asya. Roman is vacating my apartment at my request. And yes, I wasn’t freezing before I met your son either.”
She ended the call and handed the phone back to Roman.
“Pack,” the district officer said. “Time is up.”
Roman silently went to gather his things. He stuffed clothes, toiletries, and chargers into the bag. He left the coffee machine on the table.
“Take that too,” Asya said, pointing to the appliance.
“Keep it. Maybe it’ll be useful,” Roman muttered.
“I don’t need anything of yours.”
Roman shoved the coffee machine into his backpack and zipped the bag shut. He carried his things into the hallway and put on his jacket. At the door, he turned back.
“Asya, you’ll regret this. I was good to you.”
“Good is when someone asks permission, not when they declare someone else’s apartment shared.”
Roman threw the key against the wall and stepped outside. Asya locked the door with every lock, then turned to the district officer.
“Thank you very much. What documents need to be filled out?”
“None. Everything is within the law. If he appears again without an invitation, call us and we’ll draw up a violation report.”
After the officer left, Asya remained alone in the apartment. The silence felt unusual, but pleasant. No one commented on her actions, rearranged her things, or criticized her dinner.
She put the kettle on and turned on her favorite music. There was no one else’s soap in the bathroom, no men’s slippers lying by the door. Space had been freed on the kitchen table where the coffee machine had stood.
At ten in the evening, a message came from Roman.
“Asya, you already regret it, don’t you? We can talk everything over calmly.”
Asya read it and deleted it without replying.
An hour later, another came.
“I realized everything. I was wrong. Let’s meet tomorrow?”
She deleted it without finishing it.
At half past eleven, the phone pinged again.
“You don’t want to end up alone, do you? We lived well together.”
Asya muted the notifications and went to bed. In her own bed, in her own apartment, without foreign sounds or someone else’s presence.
In the morning, she got up early, as usual. She made coffee in the cezve and discovered that she liked her own way of making it much more than machine coffee. She got ready for work calmly; no one occupied the bathroom or commented on her choice of clothes.
Throughout the week, messages from Roman came every day. Asya did not read them—she simply deleted them when she saw the sender’s name. Gradually, they became less frequent.
On the weekend, she reorganized the wardrobe and returned everything to its usual place. In the far corner, she found a T-shirt Roman had forgotten and threw it into a trash bag. She bought a new set of bed linen, bright and cheerful, nothing like what her former cohabitant would have chosen.
At work, she received an offer from a major client: a two-week business trip to another city. Good money, an interesting project. Before, Asya had refused long trips, but now she agreed immediately.
Ten days later, while preparing for the business trip, another message arrived from Roman.
“Asya, can we at least meet? Talk normally?”
This time, she decided to answer.
“Meet with your mother. I’m not going to run a dormitory at my own expense.”
After that message, Roman never wrote again.
Asya packed her suitcase and checked the documents for the trip. Order reigned in the apartment—her order, without other people’s things and other people’s demands. Tomorrow morning there would be a flight, a new project, new opportunities.
On the windowsill stood a cactus her colleagues had given her on her last birthday. An undemanding plant that did not require constant attention or care. Exactly what a busy person needed.
Asya smiled, turned off the light, and went to bed. Tomorrow, a new stage would begin—without uninvited guests, other people’s mothers, or claims to her living space. The apartment had become a home again, not a temporary shelter for people who confused hospitality with a free dormitory.