“We’re not married, not registered — which means there’s nothing to divide!” Asya barked, snatching the apartment keys from him.
Asya left the office at half past six, as usual. Working as a logistics specialist in a distribution company required constant attention — suppliers, clients, warehouses, documents.
Seventy-two thousand a month wasn’t easy to earn, but Asya was used to responsibility. Four years ago, that very salary had allowed her to buy a one-room apartment in a new building on the edge 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 just listen to music. The apartment greeted her with silence and order — exactly the way Asya preferred it after a stressful day.
Roman appeared in her life three months ago at a corporate event hosted by one of their suppliers. Tall, with a pleasant smile, he could keep any conversation going. He worked as a manager at a construction company and told funny stories about clients and colleagues. After the event, he walked Asya home, and then they began meeting regularly.
The first two months went well. Roman invited her to cafés, movies, and strolls around the city. He never imposed himself by staying the night, always let her know his plans in advance. Asya started to think she had finally met a mature man who understood boundaries.
“Asya, I’ve got a problem,” Roman said at the end of May when they met after her workday. “They’ve started major repairs at my place. The plumbers tore everything apart — it’s impossible to live there. Could I stay at your place for a week? I’ll hire a crew quickly; they’ll finish everything fast.”
Asya saw nothing wrong with the request. Adults help each other in difficult situations. She gave him a spare key, cleared half of her wardrobe, even bought extra towels.
Roman moved in Saturday morning with a large duffel bag and a backpack. He had more things than Asya expected. Besides clothes and shoes, he brought his laptop, tablet, chargers, toiletries, even a small coffeemaker.
“You only have a cezve,” Roman explained, placing the machine on the kitchen counter. “And I’m used to real coffee in the mornings.”
The first few days went smoothly. Roman didn’t get in the way, cleaned up after himself, even cooked dinner a couple of times. But by midweek little things began to make Asya frown.
“Listen, your wardrobe is such a mess,” Roman remarked as he rearranged his shirts. “Let me help tidy it up? A man’s eye can be useful.”
Asya stood by the mirror getting ready for work, watching Roman rearrange her belongings as he pleased. Blouses that hung in a particular order were now mixed in with his clothes.
“Roman, don’t touch my things, please. I have my own system.”
“What system?” Roman laughed. “You said yourself you never had time to sort the closet. I help, and you’re unhappy.”
Asya stayed silent, rushing to work. But the unpleasant feeling stayed.
A few days later, he began criticizing her cooking habits.
“Asya, is this how you cook?” Roman stood at the stove, stirring her pasta with vegetables. “I’d add basil, chili pepper. Yours is so bland.”
“I like the way I make it.”
“Well, tastes differ, sure. But you can still improve things. I’ll teach you, if you want.”
Asya realized she was getting irritated. Roman spoke kindly, but every comment sounded like criticism of her lifestyle.
In the second week, another problem appeared — Roman’s mother. Raisa Ivanovna called every evening at eight, speaking loudly and for a long time. First she discussed work, then household matters.
“Roman, dear, is your girl a good homemaker?” Asya heard from the kitchen. “Can she cook? Clean? You know how young people are now — only good at going to cafés.”
Roman answered vaguely, 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 lives with you now.”
“Temporarily,” Asya corrected. “His home is under renovation.”
“Of course, temporarily,” Raisa agreed, but there was a hint of irony in her voice. “And how are you managing with cleaning? Roman likes things tidy. And he prefers homemade food, not those semi-prepared things.”
“We’re managing,” Asya replied curtly.
“That’s good. And this weekend my sister and I plan to visit. We’ll see how my son has settled in.”
Asya wanted to say she wasn’t ready for guests, but Raisa had already said goodbye and hung up.
“Roman, your mother said she’s coming to visit,” Asya said when he finished talking.
“Yeah, she wants to meet you properly. Nothing serious, she’ll come just for one day.”
“I’m not ready to host guests. I had plans for the weekend.”
“What plans? Manicure?” Roman shrugged. “You’ll reschedule. Family comes first.”
Asya felt indignation boiling inside her. What family? Roman lived with her temporarily; they’d been dating only three months, they had no obligations to each other.
On Saturday morning, as Asya was getting ready for her manicure, the intercom buzzed. Two middle-aged women with large shopping bags stood outside.
“Mommy is here!” Roman announced happily, stepping out of the shower in a bathrobe. “And this is Aunt Lida, Mom’s sister. They’ll stay 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 plump woman with a determined expression and a habit of speaking loudly. Aunt Lida was shorter but equally active. Both immediately began inspecting the apartment, commenting on everything.
“Roman, where do you sleep?” his mother asked, peeking into the room.
“On the couch for now,” Roman replied. “Asya has only one bed.”
“I see,” Raisa nodded, giving the apartment’s owner a meaningful look. “Lida and I will take the couch. You can make yourself a bed on the floor for now.”
Asya stood in the hallway with her handbag and couldn’t believe what was happening. The guests were settling into her apartment, assigning sleeping places, and Roman agreed to everything.
“Asya, you don’t mind, do you?” Roman asked. “It’s just for a couple of days.”
“I was planning to go to my manicure,” Asya said weakly.
“Oh, what manicure?” Raisa waved her hand. “Better make borscht; we’re hungry after the road. And bake some pies for tea. A family should be welcomed properly…”
Asya looked at Roman, expecting him to step in or at least explain the situation to his mother. But the man only gave her an apologetic smile and shrugged.
The weekend turned into a nightmare. Raisa Ivanovna and Aunt Lida occupied the couch, turned the TV to full volume, and demanded constant tea and food. They criticized the cleanliness, the arrangement of the furniture, even the choice of TV programs.
“Things are organized differently in our home,” declared Raisa Ivanovna, examining the bookshelves. “Roman is used to cleanliness. And you need to cook more nourishing meals — a man should eat well.”
Roman accepted his mother’s remarks as natural, even nodding in agreement at times. Asya felt like a stranger in her own apartment.
On Monday morning the guests finally left. Asya walked them to the door, politely said goodbye, and locked the door behind them. Long-awaited silence settled over the apartment.
Roman left for work without staying for a serious conversation. All day, Asya thought about the situation. In the evening, she waited for him to return and suggested they talk.
“Roman, I need to talk to you. Seriously.”
“About what?” the man switched on the coffeemaker without even looking at her.
“About what’s going on. You’ve been living here for three weeks. You don’t pay anything toward the apartment, you don’t buy groceries, and you act like the owner.”
“Like the owner?” Roman turned, genuine confusion on his face. “I help around the house, I cook sometimes.”
“You criticize my lifestyle, move my things around, invite guests without asking me. Your mother behaved in my apartment like it was her own.”
“Asya, why are you making such a big deal out of everything?” Roman laughed, though the laugh sounded strained. “We live like a family. Everything’s shared now. And the apartment has long been — well — shared too.”
The last sentence hit her like a slap. Asya stayed silent for several seconds, digesting his words.
“Shared?” she repeated slowly. “Roman, do you pay the mortgage for this apartment?”
“No, but—”
“Do you pay the utilities?”
“No, but I—”
“Groceries, cleaning supplies, internet — do you cover any of it?”
“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 to the window, then back to her with an irritated expression.
“Asya, you’re overthinking. I’m living here temporarily, helping where I can. And you’re making it into some sort of accounting exercise.”
“Temporarily — for how long? A week went by, then another two. When are you planning to move out?”
“When the renovation is finished.”
“And when will the renovation be finished?”
Roman hesitated, muttering something about contractors, delays with materials, and the need for quality work. Asya listened and understood — there was no actual timeline and none was intended.
Inside her, a feeling was growing that was hard to name. Not anger, not resentment — more like a cold determination. Asya stepped into the hallway, reached into her jacket pocket for her keyring, removed the spare apartment key, and came back to the kitchen.
“Roman,” she called calmly.
The man turned. Asya held out the key.
“We’re not married, not registered — which means there’s nothing to divide. Move out.”
Roman’s face changed instantly. Confusion was quickly replaced by indignation.
“What? Asya, are you out of your mind? I explained the renovation situation. I have nowhere to go!”
“That’s 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 over my apartment.”
“I’m not taking over! I’m living here temporarily!”
“You behave like the owner. You rearrange my things, criticize my food, invite your relatives. And most importantly — you call my apartment shared.”
Roman stepped closer, his voice growing louder.
“Asya, you don’t do this! I’ve gotten used to this place, settled in! My things are here, my plans!”
“What plans?”
“Well… we’re together. As a couple. It’s natural that we live in one place.”
“I never agreed to that. You asked to stay until the renovation was done.”
“But we’re developing as a couple!”
“Developing at my expense. In my apartment. On my money.”
Roman raised his voice, accusing her of ingratitude, saying you don’t treat people this way. Asya didn’t respond — she simply took her phone and began looking for the district officer’s number in her contacts.
“What are you doing?” Roman froze in the middle of the kitchen.
“Calling the district officer. There’s a man in my apartment who refuses to leave the premises at the owner’s request.”
“Asya, seriously?” Roman’s voice cracked. “We can talk like civilized people.”
“I already did that. I gave you the key and told you to move out. But you treat my request like a whim.”
Roman rushed to the couch, sat down, and crossed his arms.
“I’m not going anywhere. Her whim isn’t grounds for eviction. Let her prove I have no right to be here.”
Asya dialed the duty station number and calmly gave the address.
“Good evening. There is a man in my apartment who refuses to leave despite the owner’s request. Please send a district officer.”
She hung up and looked at Roman. He was sitting on the couch, but the confidence in his posture had evaporated.
“You know what, Asya, you’ll regret this. I really have nowhere to go tonight. I’ll move out tomorrow, I promise.”
“Tonight. Now.”
Twenty minutes later, the doorbell rang. A young district officer stood on the threshold in uniform, a folder of documents in his hands.
“Good evening. I was called about unlawful presence in the apartment?”
“Yes, please come in,” Asya stepped aside. “This is my apartment; here are the ownership documents. And this man refuses to leave.”
The district officer carefully examined the certificate of ownership and Asya’s passport, checking the information.
“I see. And you, young man, can you present any documents granting you the right to reside in this apartment?”
Roman got up from the couch and reached into his pocket for his passport.
“I… It’s hard to explain. I’m staying here temporarily; my place is under renovation.”
“Do you have a rental agreement?”
“No, we… are in a relationship.”
“Temporary residence registration?”
“Also no.”
“Written permission from the owner to reside here?”
Roman looked at Asya, then at the officer.
“Everything was verbal. Between close people.”
The officer nodded and wrote something in his notepad.
“I understand. Let me explain the situation without emotion. Cohabitation without official registration, without residence documents, without a contract — is not considered tenancy, but temporary stay with the owner’s consent. As soon as that consent is withdrawn, the stay becomes unlawful. The owner has every right to demand immediate vacation of the premises.”
“And what if I have my things here?” Roman pointed to the corner where his duffel bag stood.
“Pack your things and leave the apartment. Right now. Otherwise it will be considered unlawful self-help.”
At that moment Roman’s phone rang. His mother’s name appeared on the screen.
“Hello, Mom,” Roman answered, glancing at the officer.
“Roman, dear, how are you? That girl isn’t treating you badly, is she?”
“Mom, the situation is complicated…”
Raisa Ivanovna spoke loudly enough for everyone in the room to hear.
“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 for your information, I was not freezing even before I met your son.”
She hung up and handed the phone back to Roman.
“Get ready,” the officer said. “Your time is up.”
Roman silently went to gather his things. He packed clothes, toiletries, chargers into the bag. He left the coffeemaker on the table.
“Take that too,” Asya pointed at the machine.
“Keep it, maybe you’ll need it,” Roman muttered.
“I don’t need anything of yours.”
Roman shoved the coffeemaker into his backpack, zipped the bag, carried everything into the hallway, and put on his jacket. At the door he turned around.
“Asya, you’ll regret this. I was good to you.”
“‘Good’ means asking permission — not declaring someone else’s apartment shared.”
Roman threw the key at the wall and stepped out. Asya locked the door with every lock and turned to the officer.
“Thank you very much. Do I need to file any paperwork?”
“No. Everything happened within the law. If he shows up again without an invitation — call us, we’ll file a violation report.”
After the officer left, Asya was alone in the apartment. The silence felt unusual, but pleasant. No one commented on her actions, moved her things, or criticized her dinner.
She put on the kettle and turned on her favorite music. There was no stranger’s soap in the bathroom, no men’s slippers lying by the door. The kitchen table was free again — no coffeemaker cluttering it.
At ten in the evening, a message came from Roman.
“Asya, you regret it already, right? We can talk calmly.”
Asya read it and deleted it without replying.
An hour later came another one.
“I understand everything now. I was wrong. Let’s meet tomorrow?”
She deleted it without finishing the text.
At half past eleven, her phone pinged again.
“You don’t want to be alone, do you? We lived well together.”
Asya muted notifications and went to sleep. In her own bed, in her own apartment, without someone else’s sounds or presence.
She woke up early, as usual. Made coffee in the cezve — and realized she liked her own method far more than the machine’s. She got ready for work in peace; no one occupied the bathroom or commented on her clothes.
During the week, messages from Roman kept coming daily. Asya didn’t read them — she simply deleted them when she saw his name. Gradually, they became less frequent.
On the weekend, she reorganized her wardrobe, putting everything back in its proper place. In a distant corner she found a T-shirt Roman had forgotten — she tossed it into a trash bag. She bought a new set of bedding, bright and cheerful, nothing like what her former cohabitant would have chosen.
At work, she received an offer from a major client — a business trip to another city for two weeks. Good money, an interesting project. She used to decline long trips, but now she agreed immediately.
Ten days later, while preparing for the trip, another message from Roman arrived.
“Asya, can we at least meet? Talk normally?”
This time she decided to answer.
“Meet with your mother. I’m not running a hostel at my own expense.”
After that message, Roman never wrote again.
Asya packed her suitcase, checked her travel documents. The apartment was in perfect order — her order, without anyone else’s things or complaints. Tomorrow morning was the flight — a new project, new opportunities.
A cactus stood on the windowsill, a gift from colleagues for her last birthday. An unpretentious plant that required no constant attention or care. Just what a busy person needs.
Asya smiled, turned off the light, and went to bed. Tomorrow a new chapter would begin — without uninvited guests, overbearing mothers, or people claiming rights to her living space. Her apartment had become a home again, not a temporary shelter for those who confused hospitality with a free dormitory.
