Infatuation

March 14, 2026

I fell in love. Desperately and irrevocably.

Truth be told, I probably wouldn’t have started keeping this journal at all if it weren’t for everything that’s been piling up inside me and sometimes keeping me awake at night.

Although, if I’m being completely honest with myself, I’ve always loved writing. Writing is a way of living through the day again, preserving not only myself in it, but also the people who, one way or another, left their mark on my life. Zverev used to say that writing was how I kept my anxieties under control. Maybe he was right. I can’t ask him anymore.

So I suppose this journal is, first and foremost, an attempt not to lose myself in a world of fears, worries, and doubts. An attempt to understand what I feel for her.

For her. The woman who keeps finding her way into my dreams like an angel descending from heaven. Sometimes I honestly don’t know where she seems more angelic — there, in my dreams, or here, in real life.

It all began like a dream anyway.

I woke up early enough to make it everywhere I was expected today, even if there weren’t that many places to go. After a quick stretch and a warm shower, I climbed into my trusty car and headed to my mother’s place at full speed, determined to get this traditional courtesy visit out of the way as quickly as possible.

Unsurprisingly, nothing new awaited me.

There she was, exactly as always: sitting deep in her armchair with one leg crossed over the other, staring at me with her sharp little eyes and trying to find out when the sound of little feet would finally echo through her house.

“Mom, I’m not five years old. I’m old enough to decide for myself whether I want to get married at all, and if I do, when.”

These conversations about marriage and children irritated me beyond measure, so my answer came out sharper than it probably should have.

“You know what women are like these days,” she snorted. “Give them a finger and they’ll bite off your whole arm. Besides, I didn’t give birth to a fine young eagle like you just so you could...”

At this point—or at any similar point, really—the sheer absurdity of the situation usually made me want to laugh. I’d bite my lip until it hurt just to keep a straight face. It never helped. Half an hour later, the assault on my life choices would resume.

That’s how our conversations always went.

When are you getting married? We need to stop by the supermarket. Your birthday is coming soon. When are you getting married? The neighbour still hasn’t returned my salt. Maybe at least find yourself a girlfriend. They’ve put those antennas everywhere. Come visit tomorrow. Don’t forget your mother. Don’t wait too long to continue the family line.

That’s just how my mother is. A genuinely kind person, if you look closely enough. She simply has a fixation. Then again, who doesn’t these days?

I left my parents’ house in a good mood, feeling like I’d fulfilled my duty as a son.

The mood improved even further when I imagined my father coming home from work and receiving exactly what I had just endured: a lengthy speech about what a terrible son my parents had somehow managed to raise.

As usual, Dad would roll his eyes just for show, shake his head, and go watch football while secretly feeling happy for me.

In his eyes, I wasn’t exactly a hero, but at least I had some backbone. At thirty-three, I still hadn’t become henpecked—which, in practical terms, meant I still wasn’t married.

I suspect he saw in me a small personal victory over my mother. He himself was a very gentle man and gave in to her on almost everything. I, meanwhile, was the backbone that allowed him to claim that someone like me couldn’t possibly be the son of a weak-willed man—which was how he often thought of himself.

Even though it wasn’t true. He wasn’t weak. Just kind.

If only he knew what my strong masculine position had actually been resting on all these years. He would be disappointed. I hope he never finds out.

The world beyond the front door seemed filled with a peculiar sense of peace and goodwill. Even the idiot in a Chevrolet who cut me off at an intersection failed to disturb the calm that had settled somewhere deep inside me.

It was March.

Out in the countryside everything was still covered in white, but here, in our small yet surprisingly crowded town, the snow piled along the roadsides by municipal workers had long since turned into something grey and shapeless. The kind of mess you’d throw into a washing machine, pour in twice the usual amount of detergent, and pray to every known and unknown god that it came out looking at least a little whiter than an old worn-out duvet cover.

Realizing my thoughts had wandered off in a rather strange direction, I turned into the courtyard of an apartment block where another relative of mine lived.

This time, a beloved one. My little sister. Anya.

Granted, “little Anya” was pushing thirty by now, but since when do younger sisters stop being kids in the eyes of their older brothers?

We’ve always gotten along well.

Even back when I had to spend hours outside looking after her while other teenagers my age were off doing far more interesting things, I never really minded. And whenever something happened to her, dealing with whoever had disturbed her peace came naturally to me.

Sometimes it got downright funny. Most children say, “Don’t tell Dad.” Anya used to tell Mom, “Don’t tell Anton.” She knew Anton—that is, me—wasn’t particularly diplomatic.

Long story short, solving Anya’s problems had become a regular part of my life, even when the day in question happened to be a weekend.

“What is it this time?” I grumbled after her customary hug and the equally customary “How are you?“—a phrase that rarely means anything to anyone.

“A shelf,” my sister replied with a smile, handing me a hammer and a handful of screws.

“Right.”

How exactly was I supposed to explain that screws weren’t the same thing as wall plugs with screws? Honestly, how? She was already heading out of the hallway, so I had to raise my voice.

“Anya! Do you have any other screws?”

“What kind?”

“The dressed ones."

A brief silence followed. Then: “The what?”

“The ones that come with wall plugs.”

Fortunately, we found them.

By the time the shelf was securely hanging where it belonged and we had settled down with tea, Anya suddenly looked at me with an odd tension in her voice.

“Anton, tell me honestly. Do you ever plan on getting married?”

Naturally, the glazed doughnut I was eating chose that exact moment to go down the wrong way. I coughed.

“What, are you all trying to kill me today?”

“I’m serious, Anton.”

The determination in her eyes made it clear she really was.

“I understand that giving up the most valuable thing a man has—his freedom—is difficult. But sooner or later, you have to.”

The expression in her green eyes softened. She stood up abruptly, walked over to the window, turned back toward me, and folded her arms.

“I sometimes feel like our family is cursed. You can’t seem to get married, and here I am living alone. Another few years and I’ll start collecting cats. But it isn’t right. People are supposed to be together.”

“If they love each other,” I interrupted before she could continue.

“If they love each other,” Anya repeated with feeling. Then she looked at me carefully. “Have you really never loved anyone?”

I have. I do. The words appeared instantly in my mind. But I said nothing. I merely smiled. Calmly. A smile that never reached my eyes.

Then I got up, walked over to her, and wrapped her in a hug.

“Here’s the deal, little sister. You get married first. I’ll watch how much fun you’re having on the other side, and then I’ll get married immediately. Maybe even the very next day.”

I felt her smile. Then I let go.

“Deal?”

“Deal,” she replied with a sigh.

At the time, I paid very little attention to what had happened. But it really was an outburst. Seeing Anya that tense was unusual. The day was simply too beautiful, so I blamed it on the full moon and thought no more about it.

Now, however, looking back on that conversation, I realize she wanted to tell me something else. I just wasn’t listening. Because things were supposed to work the other way around. She was the younger one. She was supposed to listen to me.

With the family matters dealt with, I turned my attention to my own affairs—namely, preparing for the highly important social event known as going over to someone’s house as a guest.

My first stop was a liquor store, where I bought the first decent bottle of whisky I saw.

After that came a much longer voyage through flower shops. Choosing even one bouquet is a chore. Choosing two bouquets—one for the hostess and one for the female guest—is practically an art form.

Fortunately, I still had no idea who the guest would be, so I chose the safest option imaginable. Thirteen roses.

The hostess, however, was a different matter. I didn’t just need flowers. I needed a story. Something inspiring. Something memorable.

After wandering from one flower boutique to another, I finally found exactly what I had been looking for. Ranunculuses. The moment I saw the bouquet, I knew it was the one. I almost fell in love with it myself. Without giving it another thought, I bought it.

Only after checking my watch did I realize I had spent two entire hours shopping. Thank God I don’t have children, I thought as I headed home to get ready for the evening.

Halfway there, my stomach reminded me that it existed. I started weighing my options. Drive home and enjoy the exquisite homemade delicacy known as instant ramen? Or have a proper lunch?

The decision took about five seconds. I’ve always loved good food, and extra weight was never a problem for me. My metabolism worked exactly the way nature intended.

Realizing where I was, I pulled into a cosy little café not far from my apartment.

The food was good. The waitresses were charming. And while waiting for your order, they could come over several times just to ask whether you needed anything else or whether there was a draft. This despite the fact that the thermometer inside usually showed twenty-three degrees Celsius.

I generally responded with my brightest smile and, naturally, generous tips. That was probably what won them over.

As it turned out, however, my plans to charm the waitresses that day were doomed from the start.

The moment a menu landed in front of me, I heard a familiar female voice call my name. I looked up from the menu, glanced around the café for some reason just to make sure she was talking to me, and only then smiled at Kristina.

Not that there had been any doubt. I had recognized her voice immediately.

“Hey, Kris.” My smile widened as I got to my feet.

“Hi.” She let me kiss her on the cheek in greeting. She smelled pleasantly of lavender and something more complicated that my nose couldn’t quite identify. Though I was fairly certain cinnamon was part of it.

Kristina looked at me with her soft brown eyes while absent-mindedly fiddling with the strap of her handbag.

She was dressed exactly as I had come to expect: a business suit, an immaculate white blouse, and the ever-present badge identifying her as an employee of one of the local banks.

Her dark hair was pinned up in a hairstyle that looked unmistakably office-approved, and her exposed ears carried the unmistakable signs of financial success in the form of heavy jewellery that certainly hadn’t come from a costume shop.

“Wait a second,” I suddenly said. It finally dawned on me. “What are you doing here?”

Kristina lived on the opposite side of town. She worked there, too. Seeing her in my neighbourhood felt completely random.

“Are you serious?” she asked cheerfully as she sat down across from me. I had little choice but to sit down as well.

“There’s a party tonight. And look at my nails.” She stretched her hand across the table.

I stared dutifully at the flawless French manicure. I had absolutely no idea what I was supposed to be looking at. Still, I nodded. Of course I’d seen it. I’d seen stranger things in my life.

“I see,” I said. Then the second revelation hit me. “Wait. What party?”

I was still recovering from the unexpected encounter, and my thoughts were taking their sweet time assembling themselves into something useful.

“What do you mean, what party?” she laughed. “At Alina and Igor’s.”

“Oh. Right.” I continued being an idiot. Then came the third revelation.

“Hold on. You’re the mysterious guest who was invited but still wasn’t sure whether she’d come?”

“And who else would it be?” Kristina asked, once again waving her fingers under my nose. Beautiful fingers, I had to admit. Elegant ones.

“If these nubs manage to turn into proper nails by the end of the day, I’ll definitely be there.”

I finally relaxed and couldn’t help smiling. Well done, Alina. Trust Alina to play matchmaker again. You had to admire her ability to create mystery where none existed and turn Kristina into some enigmatic stranger. She simply refused to abandon her mission of getting me married.

Looks like everyone was working toward the same goal today. Wonderful.

“I’m glad it’ll be you,” I said honestly.

After the conversations I’d already endured with my mother and sister, the last thing I wanted was to spend the evening getting acquainted with some complete stranger. And despite all her virtues, Kristina was probably the safest possible option.

Pretty. Slim. Fit. Blessed with perfectly proportioned curves. But she wasn’t the kind of person I could spend hours talking to about anything beyond online shopping.

Exactly what was needed. And, in the context of this particular gathering, exactly what the evening had been missing.

“So?” she asked. “Are you buying me something, or should I leave?”

Kristina fixed me with the sort of intense gaze that probably worked wonders on everyone unfortunate enough to become its target. Everyone except me.

“Fine,” I sighed inwardly.

Mentally wishing the waitresses a pleasant day, I redirected my attention entirely toward Kristina, who also happened to be Alina’s closest friend. That was why I wasn’t remotely surprised when she suddenly leaned forward and lowered her voice.

“Anton, can you do me a favour?”

“Depends.”

“Don’t tell Alina I gave myself away.” She hesitated. “I mean, don’t tell her that I told you I’m definitely coming tonight.”

Then, as though apologising for the secrecy, she quickly added: “She specifically asked me not to say anything.”

Now what exactly was I supposed to answer to that?

In the end, I said nothing at all. Instead, I excused myself, walked out to the car, and returned carrying the bouquet of roses. I placed it on the table in front of her.

“These are for you.”

For a second, Kristina simply stared. Then her entire face lit up.

“Thirteen roses,” she said softly.

“No need to count them.”

Her smile grew wider. “Nice to know that some things in this world never change.”

_____________________________________________________________________

Enjoyed the chapter?

​Want to read ahead? Get early access to the next chapters and the complete, uncensored finale of 'Another Side' on my Patreon:

​👉 https://www.patreon.com/cw/anotherside_stories

​Thank you for your support!