Toxic friend

“He left me…” she sobbed. “And I loved him so much… I did everything for him… Gave him everything…”

Marina awkwardly patted her on the back, feeling the icy dampness seep through her own blouse. She led her into the living room and sat her down on the sofa. Lilia continued to cry, quietly, almost silently, and these tears were far more terrifying than her usual hysterics.

“I called you, I called…” Lilia sobbed, raising her tear-filled eyes to Marina. “I felt so awful, so alone… I only needed you… And you didn’t pick up. I thought you’d abandoned me too…”

And there it was, the familiar, painfully recognizable blade of manipulation in her voice. But now it was wrapped in such packaging of sincere suffering that Marina couldn’t find the strength to be angry. Instead, she was seized by a burning, suffocating guilt.

She pictured Lilia at that very moment: abandoned, crying, while she, Marina, had angrily turned off her phone. She had left her alone in her hardest time.

“I had… an important meeting,” Marina weakly tried to justify herself.

“I know! I remember!” Lilia exclaimed, grabbing her hands. Her fingers were icy. “And I feel so guilty for distracting you! Forgive me, darling! Forgive me! I’m so selfish! I was only thinking of myself and my pain! How did your presentation go? Did it go well?”

The question was asked with such feigned, theatrical interest that Marina suddenly saw the full absurdity of the situation. Her career was possibly in ruins, and she was sitting here comforting the one who had caused this collapse. And that person was asking for her forgiveness, making her feel doubly guilty.

“It was fine,” Marina replied dryly, looking away. “Everything’s okay.”

“I’m so glad!” Lilia exhaled, but it was obvious she didn’t care at all. Her thoughts were back with the departed Sergei. “You’re so strong, Marin. You have your work, your talent… And me… what am I without him? Nothing. Just an empty space.”

She burst into tears again. Marina silently stood up, went to the kitchen, and put the kettle on. She needed to do something, a simple, understandable action to distract herself from the chaos in her own soul. When she returned with two cups of hot tea, Lilia was rummaging in her huge bag.

“I brought you something…” she said, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. “You know, I was walking past a store window and I saw it… and I immediately thought of you. Like a sign.”

She handed Marina a small, elegant box wrapped in silk paper. Marina took it mechanically and unwrapped it. Inside, on black velvet, lay a brooch of exquisite craftsmanship – the most delicate silver lace with a small, perfectly cut sapphire in the center. It was an expensive, wildly expensive piece. And incredibly beautiful.

“Lil… this is… why?” Marina whispered, bewildered.

“It’s so you’ll forgive me,” Lilia looked at her again with her huge, tear-filled eyes. “And so you’ll remember that you’re my one and only. My most loyal. My best.”

She took the cup of tea, but her hands were shaking so much the tea sloshed over. Marina automatically took the cup from her and set it on the table.

“Everyone leaves me,” Lilia said quietly, almost in a whisper, staring into emptiness. Her voice held such a bottomless, cosmic melancholy that goosebumps ran down Marina’s skin. “Dad left when I was little. Then my first husband. Then the second… Then all those men… And now Sergei. I knew it. I always knew it. Always. They come to me, they use me, and then they leave. No one needs me. At all.”

She fell silent, and the silence in the room became thick, viscous.

“Only you are left,” she raised her eyes to Marina, full of plea and despair. “Only you, Marinochka. You won’t leave me, will you? Really? You won’t leave? Do you promise?”

And in that moment, all of Marina’s rage, all her resentment, all the pain from the failed presentation – it all dissolved, evaporated under the pressure of this monstrous, all-consuming pity. Before her sat not a manipulative monster, but a wounded, unhappy child who had been afraid of being abandoned her whole life. She had been betrayed, her career was under threat, but it wasn’t Lilia’s fault. It was the fault of all those men who had broken her, made her so vulnerable.

Marina sat down next to her on the sofa and hugged her again.

“Of course I won’t leave you,” she said quietly, stroking her wet hair. “Silly. How could I ever leave you?”

“Promise?” Lilia whispered stubbornly, like a child, pressing herself into Marina’s shoulder.

“I promise,” Marina whispered back.

Lilia hugged her tighter and seemed to calm down a little. Her breathing became more even. Marina sat motionless, feeling the weight of her body, the cold dampness of her clothes, and the oppressive, suffocating weight of the promise she had just made. She looked over Lilia’s head at her blueprints scattered on the floor. Her dreams. Her failure.

And on her palm, as if burning it, lay the beautiful, cold, incredibly expensive brooch. A bribe for forgiveness. Payment for silence. A bright, shining sapphire that suddenly seemed to her like a frozen, cold tear.

Lilia cried quietly on her shoulder, now more for show, enjoying being accepted and forgiven again, being safe again. And Marina looked out the dark window where the rain continued to pour, and felt something important and fragile inside her finally shatter. The anger was gone. But it hadn’t left emptiness in its wake; it had left another feeling – heavy as lead and bitter as wormwood.

The feeling of a trap. One she had just snapped shut herself.

Chapter 4: A New Light

The week following the disastrous presentation and Lilia’s nighttime visit dragged on slowly and drearily, like a sweater soaked in autumn rain. Marina felt scorched from the inside. Every morning, crossing the office threshold, she caught the glances of her colleagues – a mix of curiosity, pity, and outright schadenfreude. Alexander Petrovich didn’t speak to her. The “Sparrow Hills Residence” project had been handed over to another designer, Olga, a capable and emotionless woman who now held court in the conference room with Marina’s blueprints in her hands.

Marina buried herself in routine. Small orders, corrections, paperwork. What she had once found boring now became her refuge. Here, she didn’t need to show initiative, to shine, to take risks. She could just perform mechanical work, hiding behind it from the shame and feeling of her own inadequacy.

Lilia called every day. Her story about the departed Sergei continued, but the tone gradually shifted from tragic to dramatic, and then to the familiarly demanding one. She was already planning how to “get him back just to dump him herself,” was keenly interested in whether Marina had met any new interesting men, and had started criticizing her work, her clothes, and her lack of ambition again. The sapphire brooch, lying on her dressing table, seemed to emit a cold, heavy light, constantly reminding her of that evening and the promise she’d made.

On Friday, Artem called Marina to his office.

“Listen,” he said, not looking her in the eye, shuffling papers on his desk. “We need to go to a gallery. They’re exhibiting a collection of modern furniture and art objects. The owner, Mikhail, is a friend of the boss. The boss wants us to see if there’s anything we can use in current projects. Will you go?”

It wasn’t a suggestion; it was an order. And a clear attempt to snap her out of her hibernation, to give her some neutral assignment.

“Of course,” Marina nodded without enthusiasm.

The “Modernist” gallery was located in a quiet lane in the very heart of the city. It wasn’t just an exhibition space; it was a true island of harmony and taste. High ceilings, white walls, perfect lighting that fell softly on the whimsical shapes of armchairs, sculptures, and paintings. The air smelled of wood, leather, and the faintest aroma of expensive coffee. A silence reigned here, broken only by quiet, unobtrusive music.

Marina involuntarily straightened her back. This place breathed the very aesthetics, the very attention to detail, that had drawn her to the profession in the first place. Her eyes automatically began picking out interesting solutions, combinations of materials, plays of light and shadow. She took out her notebook, forgetting her apathy for a moment.

“Hello,” a calm, pleasant baritone voice sounded behind her. “Can I help you with something?”

Marina turned around. A man stood before her. Tall, in a perfectly fitted dark grey cashmere sweater and simple jeans. There was nothing flashy about his appearance, nothing of the forced gloss of Lilia’s acquaintances. But there was an incredible sense of self-esteem and calm strength. His eyes, grey and very attentive, looked at her not appraisingly, as a seller would look at a potential client, but with genuine interest.

“I… I’m from the ‘Modern’ bureau,” Marina introduced herself, feeling, for some reason, a slight tremble in her knees. “My name is Marina. Someone called… about the collection.”

“Ah, yes, of course,” he nodded, and small wrinkles appeared at the corners of his eyes. His smile was warm and slightly reserved. “Mikhail. I have a lot of respect for your bureau’s work. Especially the last project with the public space on Patriarch’s Ponds.”

Marina looked at him in surprise. That had been her project. One of her first, modest but made with soul.

“You… saw it?”

“Naturally,” he lightly touched her elbow, inviting her deeper into the hall. “I follow all the significant events in the city. The work with light there was very bold, and the zoning was very… human, I’d say. You could feel it.”

They talked for over an hour. Mikhail didn’t try to sell her anything. He talked about art, about design, about how space influences people. He asked her questions. Not out of politeness, but truly listening to her answers. He asked her opinion on this or that piece, and when Marina, first timidly and then more confidently, began to share her thoughts, he listened attentively, nodded, sometimes argued, but always – respectfully.

“This piece,” Marina stopped in front of an abstract sculpture of polished metal and frosted glass. “It’s… otherworldly. As if it flew in from another dimension. But this crack, this chip at the base… it makes it human. It’s a reminder that even something perfect and cold can be vulnerable.”

Mikhail looked from the sculpture to her.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “That’s exactly what I felt when I acquired it. But I couldn’t put it into words. You have a remarkable ability to see the soul of things, Marina.”

Her name in his mouth sounded special. Quiet, respectful, without familiarity. Marina felt a warm blush spread across her cheeks. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had talked to her like this – as an equal, with genuine interest in her thoughts, not in her ability to listen to others.

He offered her coffee. They sat in a small office behind a glass wall overlooking the hall. He told her about how the gallery was created, about his searches, about the artists. Marina suddenly found herself telling him about her failed presentation. She didn’t go into details, didn’t mention Lilia, just said she had failed an important project.

“And how did you feel?” Mikhail asked, his grey eyes fixed on her face.

“That I… was in the wrong place,” she admitted, surprising herself with her frankness. “That maybe I’d chosen the wrong profession. That my vision was worthless to anyone.”

Mikhail shook his head.

“One failure is not a verdict. It’s a lesson. Sometimes the harshest lesson is the most valuable one. It burns away everything superficial and shows you what remains. And what remains is only the most important thing – your passion. Your vision. You can’t lose it. You can only betray it.”

He spoke not as a comforter, but as a man who had been through it himself. There wasn’t a drop of condescension or pity in his words. There was understanding. And belief. The very belief Marina had almost buried within herself.

When she gathered her things to leave, Mikhail handed her his business card – simple, matte, with embossed lettering.

“Marina, it was incredibly pleasant and useful to talk with you. You’ve given me a few ideas for a new exhibition. If you’re in the mood, please stop by again. We sometimes have private viewings, lectures… I think you might find them interesting.”

He didn’t ask for her phone number. Didn’t try to set up a meeting. He simply left the door ajar, giving her complete freedom of choice.

“Thank you,” Marina said, taking the card. Their fingers touched briefly. His touch was warm and firm. “It was very interesting for me, too.”

She stepped outside. The evening air was already cool with autumn’s touch, but Marina barely felt it. Inside, a small, almost extinguished ember was glowing. She walked along the boulevard, not noticing the passers-by, and his voice echoed in her head. “Your vision. You can’t lose it. You can only betray it.”

She suddenly realized that during the entire hour-plus conversation, Mikhail had not once interrupted her, tried to steer the topic to himself, or devalued her thoughts with a joke or a barb. He had simply… listened. And seen. Not her as a reflection of someone’s ambitions or a convenient friend, but her herself – Marina, the designer, the woman with her own inner world.

She took out her phone. There were several missed calls from Lilia and one voicemail. Marina mechanically tapped on it.

“Marin, where are you? I’m bored!” Lilia’s voice was capricious and demanding. “Call me back, we need to discuss the revenge strategy against Sergei. I’ve thought of something brilliant!”

Just a few hours ago, this message would have made her shrink inside with a sense of duty and guilt. Now she listened to it as if from the outside, through the prism of the conversation she had just had. And for the first time, she clearly heard behind that sweet, bored tone – a selfish, piercing shriek. An emptiness demanding to be filled at any cost.

She didn’t call back. She just put the phone in her pocket and continued on her way, clutching the matte rectangle of the business card in her hand. For the first time in a long time, she felt not heaviness and fatigue, but a light, almost forgotten feeling – a quiet, calm hope. And something else. Hesitant, timid, but already breaking through the thickness of disappointments and hurts – a sense of self-worth.

She wasn’t a grey mouse. She wasn’t authentic and cute. She was a professional, with refined taste and her own vision. And one intelligent, handsome man with calm grey eyes had seen it and helped her see it in herself.

The world outside the window hadn’t changed. It was the same as before. But Marina was already looking at it with slightly different eyes.

Chapter 5: Poisonous Laughter

Three days had passed since the meeting at the “Modernist” gallery. Three days during which Marina caught her thoughts returning, again and again, to Mikhail’s calm voice, his attentive gaze, that feeling of lightness and self-worth he had given her. The business card with its elegant embossing lay in a separate compartment of her bag, and she found herself touching it with her fingers like a talisman.

She had even tried sketching a few new designs. Not for work, but for herself. Bold, slightly crazy lines that conservative Alexander Petrovich would never approve of, but which made her heart beat faster. They had life in them. They had her in them.

It was over these sketches, sitting at her favorite table in a quiet coffee shop near her home, that the next call from Lilia found her. Marina sighed, put down her pencil, and answered.

“Marinochka, where are you? I need your help urgently!” Lilia’s voice rang not with anxiety, but with excitement. “Meet me at your place in half an hour! This can’t be discussed over the phone!”

And without giving Marina a chance to object, she hung up.

Marina looked at her sketches. A flight of thought, interrupted. Her focus was gone, leaving only the familiar sense of obligation. She slowly gathered her things and went home, with a sinking feeling that her little island of calm was about to be swept away by the usual hurricane.

Lilia appeared exactly forty minutes later, an act of near-unheard-of punctuality for her. She blew into the apartment like a whirlwind, sweeping everything aside in her path. This time she was wearing a short, acid-pink dress, huge sunglasses, and the expression of a triumphant lottery winner.

“Well, talk!” Lilia demanded, kicking off her heels and settling on the sofa, tucking her legs under her. “I’m dying of curiosity! I know something’s happened! You’re glowing! You’ve met someone!”

Marina froze by the kitchen counter, where she was about to put the kettle on.

“What makes you think that?” she asked, trying to keep her voice even.

“Sweetie, I’ve known you for a hundred years!” Lilia snorted. “I can see those silly little sparkles in your eyes. That’s not from a new chandelier. Confess! Who is he? Where did you meet? And why am I the last to know?”

Marina felt goosebumps run down her spine. She didn’t want to share Mikhail with Lilia. He was hers. Her small, fragile, newly-born feeling. She was instinctively afraid that her friend’s poisonous gaze would kill it on the spot.

“There’s no one special,” she said, looking down. “I just met someone. Through work.”

“Through work?” Lilia raised her eyebrows with exaggerated interest. “Who? That bearded architect from your office? The one who always wears stretched-out sweaters?”

“No,” Marina surrendered. Resisting was useless. Lilia would extract it all from her anyway, like pulling teeth. “The owner of a gallery. Mikhail.”

“Mikhail?” Lilia pronounced the name as if tasting a strange and suspicious fruit. “A gallery? What, that little shop where they sell daubs by unknown artists? Or the one with matryoshka dolls holding sickles and hammers?”

“No,” Marina felt herself being sucked into the quagmire of this conversation. “Modern art. Design. A very serious gallery.”

“Oh, serious!” Lilia snorted. “Well, go on then. How old is he? Does he even look decent? Or is he all wrinkles and grey in his beard?”

Marina clenched her hands into fists. She tried to recall Mikhail’s calm, handsome face, but it blurred under the barrage of Lilia’s poisonous comments.

“He’s… around forty. He looks great. Very… stylish.”

“Stylish?” Lilia laughed her bell-like, caustic laugh. “You mean he wears a black turtleneck and has an earring? ‘Stylish’? Sweetie, that’s called a mid-life crisis. He’s probably poor as a church mouse. All these gallery types are eternal drop-outs, playing at art on daddy’s money or some sugar mama’s dime. I bet he’s been divorced half a dozen times and pays alimony to three kids from different wives.”

“Lil, stop it!” Marina couldn’t take it anymore. “You haven’t even seen him!”

“I don’t need to see him,” Lilia cut her off with sudden coldness. “I know these ‘creative’ types inside and out. Believe me. He’s not for you. You deserve someone… real. With money. With status. Someone who will carry you in his arms, not discuss daubs with you in his shabby little gallery.”

She stood up and paced the living room, her gaze falling on Mikhail’s business card, which Marina had left in haste on the coffee table next to her sketches.

“Oh, ‘Mikhail Somov. Modernist Gallery’, ” she read aloud in a mocking tone. “How precious. He even gave you his little card. Probably printed it at his own expense in some back-alley print shop. How cute.”

She threw the card back on the table as if it were something unpleasant to the touch.

“Marin, I’m only thinking of you!” Her tone changed again to a heartfelt, chummy one. She came over and put her arm around Marina’s shoulders. “You’re my best, my kindest girl. You’re naive. You only see the good in people. And men like him take advantage of that. He smelled your insecurity after your little failure at work and decided to move in. He’ll use your connections at the bureau, or worse, ask to borrow money ‘for the gallery’s development.’ I don’t want you to be used!”

Marina listened to her, and her initial anger began to slowly drown in a heavy, familiar swamp of doubt. What if Lilia was right? She certainly had vast experience with men. Mikhail really could be anyone. His gallantry, his attentiveness – could be a mask. And her own joy from meeting him – just the naive foolishness of a woman who felt sorry for herself.

“He… he was very respectful towards me,” she weakly tried to defend him.

“Of course he was!” Lilia rolled her eyes. “He’s on the hunt! Of course he’ll be respectful. Until he gets what he wants. Believe me, darling, I’m saving you from a huge mistake. You’re not for his world. You’re for something bigger. For someone bigger.”

She released Marina and settled back on the sofa, now with the air of an expert who had delivered the final verdict.

“Alright, sorted that out. Now for the main event!” Her eyes sparkled again. “My plan to get Sergei back worked! He wrote to me! He’s on his knees, begging me to come back!”

Lilia began to describe with delight every step of her “brilliant strategy,” which consisted of posting photos with other men on social media and hinting at a new, passionate romantic life. Marina listened with half an ear, nodding in the right places. Her thoughts were there, on the table, with the crumpled business card.

When Lilia finally left, buoyed by her victory, a heavy, oppressive silence hung in the apartment. Marina walked over to the table and picked up the business card. The paper was slightly creased. She tried to smooth it with her fingers, but a small wrinkle remained.

She looked at her sketches. All the bold lines, all the interesting solutions now seemed stupid, amateurish, unworthy of the attention of such a “stylish” and “serious” gallery owner. Lilia’s words, like poisonous needles, pierced the very heart of her confidence.

He’s not for you.

You deserve better.

He’s poor as a church mouse.

He’s taking advantage of your insecurity.

Marina slowly walked to her dressing table. Next to the expensive sapphire brooch lay her phone. She picked it up and opened the chat with Mikhail. Their exchange was limited to a couple of polite messages about her visit. He had written that it was nice to meet her. She had thanked him.

She wanted to write something to him. Maybe ask about that lecture. Or just send a neutral “good evening.” But her fingers froze over the screen.

What if Lilia was right? What if he really thought she was being pushy? That she was a naive little fool who mistook politeness for interest? That her modest sketches would only evoke a condescending smile from him?

Shame. A burning, piercing shame overwhelmed her. Shame for her thoughts, for her hopes, for that moment of stupid happiness she had experienced in the gallery.

She put the phone down. Then she took the business card, looked at it for another moment, and carefully, trying not to crease it further, placed it not in her bag, but in a drawer of the dressing table, under a stack of tissues. Out of sight, out of mind.

Then she went to the table with the sketches, gathered them into a neat stack, and put them away in a folder. She pushed it onto the farthest shelf.

The room became clean and empty. Not a trace remained of that brief moment of inspiration and lightness. Only the familiar, comfortable, grey reality remained, in which she was just Marina, the quiet friend of the dazzling Lilia, who “cared for her and protected her from mistakes.”