Of course, for a long time, I didn’t believe I would ever have to write a book. I hoped to find a simpler way to convey my truth to people who didn’t want to listen and weren’t willing to understand anything. Hoping for this, I called Nadya’s home phone several times.
To be honest, I wasn’t sober then—I made those calls drunk, trying to muster the courage. And so, one day, her father unexpectedly answered my call. We had never spoken before, so his warm and relaxed voice surprised me. “Hey! How are you?” he said, and I immediately felt lost. After a brief pause, he suggested, “Come by tomorrow, let’s talk, have a beer.” This invitation was an unexpected chance to explain myself and maybe clear up some misunderstandings.
When I came to see him the next day, my hopes were at their peak. I thought this would be my chance to finally express my thoughts, share my truth, and show that I was not the person they thought I was. I stood at the entrance and dialed the apartment number on the intercom. After a few seconds, there was a short beep, and the door opened with a sharp click. I entered the building, took the elevator to the right floor, and walked to the apartment. Between the elevator and the apartment door, there was a small hallway where her father met me. His face, stern and tense, didn’t promise anything good. He looked at me as if I was not a guest, but an unwelcome intruder. Despite his invitation, I already sensed that this conversation wouldn’t be easy.
His answers were brief and abrupt, and my attempts to explain myself were met with obvious suspicion, as if my words were breaking some unwritten code. Suddenly, he accused me of being a drug addict, “hooked on the needle.” I was stunned. Such a serious accusation shook me, especially considering that I had always tried to be honest and open. In an attempt to defend myself, I immediately showed him my arms so he could see—my veins were clean. However, he wasn’t convinced. Instead, he asked a question that surprised me even more: “Why are your eyes red?” That question hurt me deeply, because my eyes really were red, but not for the reason he suspected. The night before, anxious about the upcoming conversation, I had drunk some alcohol, hoping it would help me deal with my nerves. But everything went wrong, and explaining this to someone who had already formed an opinion seemed pointless. Every word I said only increased his suspicions.
When he told me to leave his daughter alone and get out of their lives, something inside me broke. In that moment, I realized that all my attempts to convey my truth were in vain. He was so sure of his own righteousness that he left no room for dialogue, unwilling to hear me out. I understood: sometimes fear and the desire to protect loved ones can cloud a person’s ability to see a situation objectively. It became clear to me that, to him, I was just a threat—a person who could supposedly harm his daughter. But I couldn’t just walk away, especially when such monstrous rumors were swirling around me.
At that moment, I remembered the words from a St1m song about the right of veto, which everyone has to protect their own truth. I realized I had to use that right—not out of pride or stubbornness, but from a sense of self-worth. Calmly but firmly, I said “no.” I wouldn’t leave until I explained myself, until I at least tried to restore some justice. But his face grew even more stone-like. This was not a man who wanted to hear explanations. And I understood that too late.
The next minute, he did something I didn’t expect. He calmly picked up the phone and called the police. This unexpected reaction shocked me—up until the last moment, I had hoped for at least some kind of dialogue, but now I had to accept reality. When the police arrived, I did not resist. Inside, emotions were raging—disappointment, resentment, a sense of injustice. But I knew I had done everything I could. I followed the police, and we left the building together. That day left a deep mark on me, but I believed that one day the truth would find its way, and they would see me not as an enemy, but as a person who always treated them with respect.
