Yulia

It was when I was still a student, ten years ago. I was a second-year student and was kicked out of the dorm for drunken disorder, so my parents, after some grumbling, rented me a modest apartment on the outskirts of town, brought in a sofa, a couple of stools, a Yuryuzan refrigerator, and my old closet with storage. They threatened to call the neighbors regularly and tell me not to do anything, and then moved back to my hometown. Basically, my joy knew no bounds. I spent the first two weeks celebrating the housewarming with friends, and around the end of the month, I convinced my girlfriend to move in with me "so we could live like a normal person."

 Things were going well at first, but soon I began to notice that Yulia was staying suspiciously late at lectures (we were in different departments), was frequently attending parties and gatherings with friends, and suddenly took a liking to visiting her parents on weekends. This gave me some unpleasant thoughts, and in general, I began to notice irritating oddities in her behavior.

One day, we were drinking beer in the park. It was already late on a winter night, with a nice Central Russian frost, and I'd lost track of time while chatting. But when I saw Yulia's hands shaking from the cold and unable to light a cigarette, I came to my senses and dragged her home. She could barely walk; I could feel her hands were thoroughly frozen, even her lips were blue. But at home, still shivering, she spent a long time trying to convince me that she wasn't cold at all, that it was the wine that was to blame, and that we could have stayed for another hour. Such incidents were becoming all too common—when she left the house, she'd try to stroll around the street as long as possible, lingering in front of shop windows, and making up ridiculous excuses not to go home.

And I also began waking up alone often in the mornings: from the tiny "bedroom," which had a bed and a closet, and which always seemed so cozy to me precisely because of its cramped space, she'd wait until I fell asleep and then go to the couch in the half-empty "living room." She'd said she'd remembered some unfinished homework. I figured it all out: she'd found a boyfriend on the side, but apparently didn't want to go back to the dorms when she had a fool with an apartment, even a rented one. The last straw came when she started locking the door at night.

 I tried to have a heart-to-heart with Yulia, but she mumbled something about drafts that made the door creak (and it was locked with a latch so the creaking wouldn't wake me), homework, my beloved parents I had to visit every week, interesting friends, and so on. Basically, I got really angry, told her I knew all about her affairs, I could see right through her, and, buttoning my jacket as I went, I went to see a friend.

I didn't return home until the evening of the next day and didn't come to my senses until the morning of the day after. Having somehow managed to regain my composure, I suddenly noticed I was alone in the apartment. Had she really left? Her things were still there, her modest shoes and boots were on the shelf in the hallway, her textbooks and notebooks untouched. I decided to call her to find out where she was, and heard a familiar ringtone from the next room. "She must have been afraid I'd make a big scene for her, so she ran away. No matter, she'll come back for her clothes, throw them on her head from the balcony, and let her collect them from all over the neighborhood," I thought maliciously.

A day passed, then two, then three. She didn't show up a week later either. Then one of her friends called me. Then her parents... Then there were the police, Yulia's crying mother, and the investigator glaring suspiciously at me. I quickly realized what was going on. At first, I didn't really pay attention, but it seemed like Yulia had left the apartment barefoot, practically naked, without money or identification (they were found in her makeup bag among her textbooks, along with her keys). The keys were clear: she'd made duplicates. Why she left was also more or less clear. But in January, in the freezing cold, at night, no one knew where? Of course, no one saw anything: who would be looking in the almost dark courtyard at such a time?

She was never found. She didn't return for her notebooks or other things, didn't call her parents or friends, didn't go into the institute. I was called to the police a couple more times, but then the case probably fizzled out, so they left me alone.

I lived in that apartment for another year, and then an alcoholic two floors below started a fire, and everything, from the doormat to the posters in the restroom, reeked of burning so much that I decided to move out, so people would stop turning around and smelling something burning. And while packing, I discovered something truly eerie. In the closet, right behind a pile of damp towels, I found a small twisted silver hoop earring that Yulia wore in her right ear. And inside this pile, I discovered some kind of disgusting lump of rags and hair; upon closer inspection, the suspiciously familiar scraps turned out to be Yulia's own sweatpants and T-shirt, torn into strips, and the hair... I think it's clear that it was hers too.

Of course, I didn't tell anyone about the find.