Vanishing Point

Natalie scrolled through her messages, eyes lingering on the latest one from Vera Mikhailovna for what felt like the hundredth time. Just as she lowered her phone, another notification popped up.

“The kitchen faucet started dripping too. Maybe you and Anton can come check it out? And bring the money for the utilities, please.”

Natalie exhaled sharply, her eyes fixed on the screen. As always, the message carried that passive-aggressive tone of “you get it, don’t you?” — and, as always, there wasn’t the slightest implication that Vera Mikhailovna would lift a finger herself. Natalie’s gaze drifted to the pile of unpaid bills teetering at the edge of the kitchen table. With a resigned sigh, she opened her banking app. Her balance blinked back at her, a cruel reminder that payday was still a week away.

From the hallway emerged Anton — unkempt, clad in sagging sweatpants, his hair sticking out in every direction. He scratched his jaw as he yawned.

“Any breakfast?” he asked, poking his head into a pan that hadn’t seen butter in days.

“I told you yesterday — I’ve got a major presentation. I’m already late,” Natalie replied without looking up.

Anton gave an exaggerated shrug, his face tightening like a sulking child.

“Fine. I guess I’ll just go back to bed.”

He disappeared into the dark hallway, his footsteps swallowed by the apartment’s silence. Natalie took a sip of cold tea. Bitter. It tasted exactly like the past year of her life.

The Life That Might Have Been

The bus ride to work had become Natalie’s only moment of solitude — a bizarre pocket of peace amid the crowded seats, the faint scent of perfume and damp jackets clinging to everyone. No one asked anything of her here. She was just another face behind a fogged-up window.

She stared out at the drizzle, the city’s rooftops blurred behind streaked glass. Her memory drifted back to when she first met Anton — at a tech conference, of all places. He’d been so charismatic, passionately explaining the nuances of some promising new app he was helping build. A confident software engineer with big dreams of launching his own startup. She was a newly minted marketing grad with spark in her eyes. How young and foolish they both were.

“I’m telling you, in five years we’ll have a place in the suburbs,” Anton had said, pouring cheap red wine in their first rented flat.

“And maybe a kid,” she added, teasing. “Or twins. Imagine that?”

They had laughed, made plans, filled their fridge with magnets from weekend getaways they could barely afford — mementos of fleeting freedom.

Her phone buzzed again. Vera Mikhailovna.

“Hello, Natashenka! You didn’t call yesterday. They prescribed new meds, I’ll send you the list. Also, don’t forget the faucet — and bring Anton. He should help more.”

Natalie locked her phone without replying. The memory of their most recent fight hit her like a wave.

“You can’t just keep sitting on the couch browsing LinkedIn,” she had shouted, waving their electricity bill in his face. “It’s been six months!”

“I’m not some customer service drone,” he snapped back. “I’m a developer with a decade of experience.”

“A former developer with no income,” she hissed.

Ahead, her office tower came into view, a sleek monolith of glass that gleamed even under gloomy skies. Here, Natalie felt like herself. Sharp heels on marble. Warm nods from colleagues. The faint scent of artisanal coffee. Here, she wasn’t a daughter-in-law or a reluctant breadwinner. She was valued.

“Your presentation yesterday? Stellar,” said Karina from the finance team. “Word is that Kravtsov loved it.”

Natalie smiled. Her phone buzzed in her blazer — no doubt another list of errands from Vera — but she didn’t check it. Not here. Not now.

Breaking Point

By the time Natalie returned home with two grocery bags and a small pharmacy haul, her hands were trembling — not from the weight, but from fatigue. The kitchen was dim and gray, every surface worn with the smudge of daily defeat.

From the other room came the pop-pop-pop of gunfire. Another evening lost to gaming. Once upon a time, she’d found Anton’s enthusiasm for all things tech charming. Now, it was just an escape. A refusal to engage with the world.

“I’m home,” she called.

No reply. Just the sharp chatter of virtual warfare and her husband barking into his headset.

She unpacked: bread, butter, cheap cheese, generic medication. Half her paycheck spent on things that barely touched her own life. Her phone vibrated again:

“Did you buy the Corvalol? Also, remember my doctor’s appointment tomorrow. Cabs are expensive — can you drive me?”

She inhaled deeply, counting silently to ten.

“Did you get food?” Anton finally emerged, stretching, eyes half-closed. “I’m starving.”

“Yes,” she replied, stacking items into the fridge. “But I still have work. I need to finish prepping the pitch for tomorrow.”

“Work, work, work,” he muttered. “When are you ever really here?”

Something inside her snapped. She stopped, a pack of spaghetti in hand, her voice like stone.

“When are you going to start working again?”

He scoffed. “It’s not hiring season. After New Year, things pick up.”

“Like they were supposed to after last New Year?” she asked. “And the one before that?”

He turned, tossing a sarcastic jab over his shoulder. “Sorry I’m not good enough for the queen of quarterly reports.”

Silence closed in like fog. Natalie caught her reflection in the darkened window — a woman she barely recognized.

The Door Opens

The conference room had emptied out. Natalie lingered, collecting papers with the slow grace of someone who’d just hit a perfect note. A quiet pride settled in her chest.

“Ms. Petrova, could I borrow you for a moment?” came the voice of Sergei Kravtsov, head of business development.

He waited until the room was entirely empty.

“You’ve shown initiative and vision,” he said, clicking his pen. “Our Kaliningrad office is opening a new marketing division. We need a head. You’re at the top of my list.”

Natalie blinked. “Kaliningrad?”

“It’s a move, yes,” he nodded. “Higher title. Fifty percent more salary. Apartment covered for six months. Plus… the sea. Think about it. I’ll need an answer by Monday.”

On the metro home, she barely noticed the swaying bodies or stuffy air. Just one image burned in her mind — a blinking map dot by the Baltic Sea. A new place. A different life.

Her phone lit up again:

“You forgot to pay the utility bill again. I’m truly disappointed in you.”

Natalie stepped off the train into their gray courtyard, the peeling walls greeting her like an old scar. She imagined walking into the apartment — Anton on the couch, Vera on speakerphone, bills on the table.

And a wild, dizzying thought came to her. What if she just said she’d been fired? Downsizing. Economic pressure. Company losses. Standard stuff.

They’d panic. She’d get breathing space.

Riding the elevator, a strange calm settled over her. She felt something inside click — not fall apart, but fall into place.

Departure

The storm rolled in just after noon, thunder echoing like a soundtrack to her unraveling life. The rain lashed against the windows as Vera burst into the apartment like a one-woman hurricane.

“What do you mean they let you go?” Anton’s voice was incredulous. “They loved your work!”

Natalie stirred her tea calmly.

“Budget cuts. They needed to restructure. It happens.”

The doorbell rang. Vera barged in, soaked and fuming.

“Natasha!” she screeched. “How could you lose your job now? You and Anton haven’t even paid my loan! And I need my heart medicine! What are we supposed to do?”

Natalie simply sipped her tea. Warmth spread from her chest outward. She felt curiously still.

Anton flopped on the couch. “You gonna say anything?”

Vera raided the fridge, slamming it shut. “So what, we live on my pension now? That man-child of mine can’t even land a part-time gig!”

The apartment rang with arguments, none of which included her. Natalie stood up quietly and entered the bedroom. Her suitcase — a relic of their honeymoon — sat forgotten on the closet shelf. She packed slowly, carefully. Her movements felt sacred.

She opened her laptop. The email was short:

“Good evening. Regarding the offer for the Kaliningrad position — I accept. When should I begin?”

Click.

A weight she hadn’t even known she carried fell away. Vera was still yelling. Anton was sulking. But they sounded far off now, like echoes from a life she no longer lived.

Natalie booked a ticket for the morning flight and went to bed, letting their voices fade behind her closed door.

Gone

Just before dawn, the apartment glowed with a pale blue light. Natalie moved silently. Anton snored on the couch, an empty bottle beside him. Vera’s handbag was open on the table, receipts spilling out.

Natalie left a note on the counter.