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Days blurred into a single gray smear, shapeless and heavy, like wet asphalt under autumn rain. Tanya awoke in her empty apartment, staring at the ceiling where shadows from the curtains traced patterns of loneliness, finding no reason to get up. She still had money—substantial severance pay and savings, tucked away in the cold digits of bank accounts. But there was no purpose in spending it. Her world, built with such effort, had collapsed, exposing a desert where nothing grew but thorns of pain and regret.

A flicker of that stubbornness, which had once lifted her from the ashes like a phoenix, still lingered within her. If she couldn’t die, then she had to try to live. But how? How does one live when inside there is only the echo of emptiness, and the heart is like a frozen lake, unstirred by any wave?

One morning, after hours of mechanical intimacy with yet another old acquaintance who knew her only as a “painter”—a mask she wore for status, to hide her true nature—she lay in tangled sheets, feeling only physical exhaustion, not of the soul. In desperation, she typed into a search engine: “psychologist, emotional numbness, depression.” Her fingers trembled like autumn leaves, but she persisted, clutching at this last straw.

She found a website with a pleasant design and a photo of a man in a white coat, about forty, with intelligent, calm eyes that seemed to see everything yet judge nothing. Eduard. She booked an appointment. Not out of faith in success, but out of hopelessness, as a final resort, like a confession before an inevitable end.

Eduard’s office smelled of coffee and lavender—a scent that gently enveloped her but oddly contrasted with his strong jawline and steady gaze. Soft light poured from a desk lamp, books on the shelves created a sense of coziness, and a comfortable chair invited relaxation. Nothing clinical. Nothing intimidating. This place was like an island in the raging sea of her chaos, and Eduard felt oddly familiar, though she couldn’t fathom why.

“Tell me, Tanya, what brought you here,” Eduard said. His voice was quiet but devoid of subservience or pity, carrying a steady, almost hypnotic depth.

He spoke evenly, without sharp intonations or emphasis, almost in a whisper, as if afraid to startle her honesty. Tanya, seated in the chair, her hands clenched on her knees until her knuckles whitened, tried to speak detachedly, as she did in boardroom reports—about her career, betrayals, survival tactics, her sister’s death, the emptiness that had become her only companion…

“I can’t cry,” she suddenly blurted out, surprising herself with the words, as if someone else had spoken them for her. “My sister died. I stood at her funeral and couldn’t squeeze out a single tear. I… It’s like I’m watching a bad movie. I know it should hurt, but… there’s nothing.”

“And what do you feel instead of pain?” Eduard asked, his gaze attentive but not oppressive, like a beam of light piercing a dark room.

“Nothing. Emptiness. Sometimes… anger. At myself. At everyone. But mostly—nothing. As if I’m looking at the world through thick glass,” her voice wavered, but she quickly reined it in, refusing to let weakness break through.

“You mentioned using sex as a tool. What about now? Do you feel a need for closeness?”

Tanya gave a bitter smirk, her lips twisting into a cynical grimace.

“A need? No. But I read that it… that it might help. Hormones, endorphins. Maybe if I try with someone… it could wake something up in me. Like an adrenaline shot to a stopped heart.”

Eduard looked at her intently, his eyes like a mirror reflecting her exhaustion but not judgment.

“Tanya, closeness built on desperation rarely leads to healing. It can be another form of self-destruction.”

“And do I have other options?” Tanya snapped, her voice ringing like a taut string. “Wait for it to resolve itself? I’ve waited. It only gets worse. I’ll be dead soon,” she said with such raw anguish that Eduard immediately offered her a glass of water from the table, as if trying to soften her pain.

“Thank you,” she murmured after a sip, attempting to continue, but her words dissolved into the void, like smoke.

In a surge of desperation, she parted her legs, attempting to seduce the psychologist, testing if her old weapon could work even here. But Eduard, meeting her gaze, showed no emotion, his face an impenetrable stone wall. This was such a blow to her already cracked armor that she instantly pulled herself together, straightened up, and feigned innocence, but even that didn’t sway him.

“This guy’s tough, seems like he’s seen plenty of desperate women, knows all the tricks,” she thought with bitter self-mockery, feeling humiliation sear her from within.

She stepped out onto the street with a strange sensation—as if she’d been turned inside out, exposing everything she’d so carefully hidden. Sex, which she had used as a key to everything—power, control, the illusion of life—had failed her. Her weapon misfired, and it hurt more than she’d expected.

But she wasn’t one to readily accept another’s opinion. She hadn’t been healed, but she’d been given a name for her ailment. “Emotional burnout.” “Post-traumatic stress disorder.” It sounded so scientific, so impersonal, like a label to slap on her forehead and forget. But it changed nothing. She was broken, and no label could piece her back together.

That same evening, she went to a nearby bar where she’d once sealed contracts and where there was always someone to meet, someone to drown her emptiness in cheap flirtation and expensive alcohol. She wore a short black dress, clinging to her figure like a second skin, and applied flawless makeup, painting a seductress’s mask on her face. But behind that mask, there was nothing. She was hollow inside, like a burned-out house, still waiting for someone to ignite a fire within her, to fill her with new life, not just fleeting heat.

A man approached her almost immediately. Sturdy, self-assured, with an expensive watch gleaming on his wrist like a symbol of his power. Igor. Owner of a chain of restaurants, who, as it turned out, enjoyed visiting others’ establishments to pick up new ideas. They struck up a conversation. He was assertive, straightforward, his words like blows, but devoid of malice. He was drawn to her coldness, mistaking it for mystery, a challenge he wanted to unravel.

Tanya played the role of an innocent, inexperienced girl dumped by her boyfriend with finesse—her voice trembled at the right moments, her eyes lowered demurely, her smile soft yet promising. She performed her old part like an actress who knew every gesture, every line. She smiled, nodded, cast ambiguous glances, touched his hand at the perfect moment. Internally, she observed herself from a distance, like a director watching an actress, noting detachedly: “Touch his hand now. Lower your gaze seductively. Say this. Do that.”

They ended up in his penthouse apartment with a view of the night city, where lights flickered, indifferent to her inner darkness. Everything was as it had been before. Expensive, stylish, soulless, like a set for a scene of empty passion.

“You’re incredible,” he whispered, peeling off her dress, his hands rough but skilled, like those of a man accustomed to taking what he wanted without hesitation.

Tanya responded with passionate kisses that were as empty as her soul. She let out moans that were quiet cries of despair, disguised as desire. She led him to the massive bed, her body moving on instinct while her mind screamed: “Now. Now something will stir. Something will come alive.” Her black lace lingerie, thin as a spiderweb, slipped down, revealing pale skin, alluring yet cold as marble. His fingers traced her curves, the soft yet taut lines of her body, but she felt only the touch, not warmth, not a spark, not life.

He took her like a storm crashing against the shore, and she wrapped her legs around him as she had done countless times before, to give pleasure and gain control, to feel something, anything. She moved like a well-tuned machine, her hips rising and falling in a rhythm honed over years. Her skin glistened with a faint sheen of perspiration, like morning dew, her breath quickened, her body reacted on autopilot—all the physical signs of arousal were there. But inside was only emptiness, black as an abyss where no light could penetrate. She stared at the back of his head, at the ceiling, at her reflection in the mirrored wardrobe—a beautiful, writhing doll whose movements lacked soul. Her chest rose and fell like waves under the wind, but her heart remained still, like a stone at the ocean’s bottom.

He reached his peak with a loud groan, collapsing onto her, his body heavy, hot, but alien. Tanya lay there, gazing at the ceiling, waiting. Waiting for something to awaken in her—tenderness, disgust, shame, anything. Any emotion, any spark that could ignite life within her.

Nothing. Only a cold emptiness, like a winter wind howling through her chest.

He propped himself up on an elbow, grinning, his eyes shining with self-satisfaction.

“So? How was it?” He awaited compliments, validation of his masculinity, a trophy for his conquest.

Tanya looked at him, her gaze empty as a scorched desert. And suddenly, she broke. Not with tears, but with words. Bitter, honest, unadorned, like a knife slicing through the silence.

“Nothing. Absolutely no feeling. I just played my part. Like a prostitute. Only free.”

His smile slid off his face, replaced by offended confusion, his brows furrowing like dark clouds.

“What? Are you sick or something?”

“Yes,” Tanya said quietly, rising and dressing with sharp, precise movements. “Yes, I’m sick. And you didn’t help. Not even a little.”

She left his apartment without looking back, her heels clicking on the marble floor like a drumroll announcing the end of yet another illusion.

Tanya thought endlessly about herself, about being utterly alone, and a chilling fear, like a cold claw, gripped her heart, compelling her to walk home instead of calling a taxi, through a dimly lit park where only the central alley was illuminated by pale pools of lantern light.

“Hey…”

She kept walking, thinking it was just the wind or the rustle of leaves.

“Heyyy…” came a louder voice, rough as scraping metal.

She turned and saw two young men sitting on a bench, their cigarettes glowing in the darkness like predatory eyes. Their stares were sticky, heavy, laden with grim curiosity.

“Where you rushing to?”

What might happen next was easy to guess, but Tanya, instead of running, decided to take control, as she always did, even when control was an illusion. Her desperation and hopelessness erased all boundaries of what was permissible, and she surprised herself with what she was about to do.

“What are your names? Never mind, doesn’t matter. You’ll be first, and you’ll be second. I’ll tell you what to do.”

They clearly weren’t prepared for this turn of events; their bravado faltered, a flicker of uncertainty passing through their eyes like a shadow on water.

“What, you scared?” she taunted with cold mockery, walking further and leaning against a tree, her pose provocative yet devoid of passion, only steeped in the darkness of despair. “Come on, first, straight into the dark entrance. Miss, and it’s your problem.”

What she could do to two sturdy men in their mid-twenties, she didn’t fully grasp herself, but the fog of desperation clouded her mind, dissolving all barriers. She had always been cautious with men, never allowing critical danger to herself. But now, in the night, the park, the darkness—it was all a stage for her self-destruction.

The first attempted to take her but failed at first, encountering her resistance like an invisible wall. His failure gave her a strange confidence, and she smirked inwardly, bitter and cynical: “I believe in you, come on, cowboy, try again.” She even assisted, her movements mechanical yet precise, like someone accustomed to controlling everything, even chaos. He entered her like a storm through a narrow strait, and her body tensed, not from passion but from cold calculation.

“And what are you standing there for, second?” she snapped, her voice sharp as a whip.

He approached awkwardly, shuffling his feet, taking too long to figure out how to position himself, his uncertainty almost comical if not for the darkness of the situation.

“Are you crazy or something? Take my mouth.”

Such words, apparently, he had never heard spoken aloud, and for a moment, his resolve wavered, but Tanya, not waiting for him to muster courage, reached for him, her movements sharp, almost aggressive. She pulled him closer, her lips and hands moving with a hunger devoid of feeling, like a machine programmed for action. Her breathing was heavy, not from desire but from inner tension, like a cornered beast. She brought him to his peak, her actions precise as a surgeon’s but cold as ice, and when he released with a loud groan, she merely pushed him away, her voice cutting like a blade.

“Go, rest.”

At that moment, she began moving on the first with such force that he nearly stumbled backward, barely holding himself up with widely braced legs, his body trembling from the strain. She felt his rhythm quicken, clenching around him like a vise, trying to wring out everything, to feel something, even an illusion of control. But inside was still that same emptiness, an abyss swallowing everything, leaving nothing behind.

Straightening up, she leisurely pulled out a tissue, wiping herself with cold methodical precision—first in front, then behind—and handed it to the second, who sat on a nearby bench, staring at the stars as if trying to comprehend what had just happened. Then she walked away, her steps firm, though inside, everything was collapsing.

She realized Eduard had been right. This wasn’t a path to salvation. It was another act of self-destruction, another step into the abyss she was falling deeper into. And she had just confirmed it, feeling her soul—or what remained of it—crack further.

The urge to return to Eduard for another session struck her the moment she stepped onto the lit street outside the park, where the lanterns seemed the only light in her darkness. Her heart, cold and heavy as stone, still beat, and she knew she had to try again, even if it was the last attempt before surrendering completely.