Lena loved the mornings. She would wake early, brew a strong coffee, and open her laptop to start working on another article. In those quiet moments, she felt confident—like she had control over every detail of her life. But with each passing day, that sense of control slipped further away.
Artyom had changed long ago. Or maybe she had only just begun to notice. Their marriage wasn’t exactly happy, but it wasn’t exactly unhappy either. They existed like neighbors, cohabiting because it was easier than facing a divorce. He came home late from work, often didn’t stay overnight, claiming business trips. She didn’t ask questions—not because she trusted him, but because she saw no point.
What worried her most wasn’t Artyom’s distant behavior—it was his mother. Alla Gennadyevna had opposed their marriage from the start.
“Artyom, you’re a man. You need a wife who creates comfort, not one glued to her laptop,” she said with a smirk during one visit.
Lena pretended not to hear. After all, Alla didn’t live with them. But her influence over her son was vast, and Lena felt it deeply.
One evening…
Artyom left for the store, and Lena decided to take a hot bath. She filled the tub with bubbles, put on relaxing music, and sank into the warmth.
About twenty minutes later, she heard the front door slam. She assumed Artyom was back. But seconds later, voices came from outside the bathroom.
“Have you finally made a decision?” Alla’s voice was sharp.
“Mom, I don’t know what’s best yet…” Artyom answered hesitantly.
Lena froze. She’d never eavesdropped before, but something inside urged her to stay still and listen.
“What’s there to think about? Make it so she leaves on her own. Don’t argue or explain. Let her feel like she has no choice,” Alla instructed.
Lena pressed herself closer to the door, heart pounding.
“Mom, it’s not that simple.”
“It is, if you do it gradually. Today one thing, tomorrow another. When her problems start, when she fears for her life, you’ll look like the poor, unhappy husband,” Alla said cruelly.
Lena didn’t know what to do. Her head spun.
“She’s not a fool,” Artyom whispered.
“Not a fool, but not all-powerful either,” Alla laughed.
Lena stepped away, sweat breaking over her skin.
They want to break her. They want her to lose her mind.
Strange things began…
Lena hid what she knew. But from that night on, everything changed.
At first, it was small. She set the alarm clock, but it didn’t ring. A minor annoyance, until she discovered someone had turned it off. Then, pills she never bought appeared in her makeup bag.
“Artyom, did you put these here?” she asked, showing him.
“What? No,” he said without looking up from his phone.
One day, she came home smelling gas. She panicked and rushed to the stove—burners were off. The smell lingered.
“Did you leave the gas on?” Artyom asked irritably.
Lena froze.
“It wasn’t me.”
He stared at her as if calculating something.
“Lena, you need to rest. You’re not yourself.”
She wanted to tell him about the strange happenings, the missing things, the overheard conversation. But she realized he was waiting—for her to doubt herself.
He wanted her to break.
Lena felt trapped with no escape. Artyom followed his mother’s plan—methodical, calm, relentless. It wasn’t an open war; it was a slow, painful siege.
She noticed more small things: documents disappearing, then reappearing elsewhere; important contacts vanishing from her phone—including a close friend; lightbulbs burning out one by one, even though they were new.
The worst was her laptop. One morning, she found the browser open on search queries like “symptoms of mental disorder,” “hallucinations from stress,” and “how to convince someone to enter a psychiatric clinic.”
She slammed the laptop shut, sweat cold on her palms.
“It’s not me. It’s not me,” she whispered.
Artyom entered.
“Still on the computer? Maybe you need a break,” he said softly, but something icy flickered in his eyes.
She said nothing. She needed to figure out how to escape.
The next day, Artyom said he’d be late. Lena saw her chance to search his things. She didn’t know what she sought—proof, dirt, or simply reassurance that she hadn’t lost her mind.
When she opened his drawer, she froze.
There was a stack of photos of her. Not ordinary ones—pictures of her sleeping, with Artyom standing nearby staring into the camera. Others showed her face in a mirror, distorted and anxious.
Frantically flipping through them, she realized she didn’t remember taking most.
“What are you doing?” Artyom’s calm voice startled her.
She spun around. His face was unreadable.
“You were spying on me?”
“Making things up?”
She stammered.
“These photos… you—”
“Lena, you think I spy on you?” He smirked, stepping closer. “I get it. You’re stressed, tired. Work is hard. We’re adults. Let’s be logical.”
She stepped back.
“You want me to go crazy.”
“No, I want you to get help.”
She ran past him into the cold night air, her legs weak.
Where could she go?
She would not be broken.
Lena didn’t return home. She hid at a colleague’s apartment for days, searching for a way out.
She found evidence—copies of Artyom’s messages to his mother with updates:
“She’s getting nervous. Said she didn’t remember turning off the light.”
“She asked about the pills. Soon she’ll blame her forgetfulness.”
“I’ll suggest a clinic visit soon—gently at first, then pressure if needed.”
Lena froze. They were trying to declare her insane.
She gathered proof and recorded a conversation with one of Artyom’s ex-friends who said, “He always knew how to get rid of unwanted people.”
When she returned home, she was no longer the confused woman they tried to corner.
“You’re back?” Artyom said, feigning relief.
“Yes. And I’m leaving.”
“Where will you go?”
“I filed for divorce. Someone will be checking on you soon.”
Artyom watched her leave, disappointment flickering in his eyes.
“Well, that didn’t work,” he murmured.
Lena crossed the threshold without looking back. But sometimes, at night, she still wakes, feeling a gaze watching her in the dark.
