The apartment belongs to an elderly owner

He rents apartments exclusively to female students. Everyone knows this, but no one talks about it out loud. His building is old, three stories, on a quiet street near the university. The apartments are small but clean. And the price is below market. Much lower. I've been renting from him since my second year. Now I'm in my fourth. The room is small, with a window overlooking the courtyard, a bed, a table, and a closet. Everything is modest, but it's mine. My parents think I'm lucky. I thought so too. For the first three months. He comes unannounced. He has his own keys. He says he needs to check the condition of the apartment. The pipes, the wiring. All that stuff. The first time, I just opened the door in my robe. He looked at me, then at the bed. He said the mattress needed to be changed. I nodded. He came over, touched the mattress, then touched me. I stood there like an idiot. He took his time. He took off my robe, then my panties. I didn't even have time to say anything. He laid me down on that same mattress and entered. Dryly, without a word. I stared at the ceiling and counted the cracks. There were seven of them. He finished, got up, got dressed. He said he'd come on Thursday to check the faucet in the kitchen. The faucet was fine. My third-floor neighbor, Lena, once asked me if the landlord came to see me. I said yes. She nodded and didn't ask anything else. We never discuss it. We just know. She, too, has her own keys, her own mattress, her own cracks in the ceiling. She's married, but her husband lives in another city. He works shifts. He comes every two months. She says that for that kind of money, it's worth it. I don't ask what exactly she puts up with. He's not rough. He never yells. He doesn't force me to do anything special. He just fucks. Silently. Sometimes longer, sometimes faster. If I'm not ready, he just waits. Maybe a couple of minutes. Then he enters anyway. I don't resist. There's no point. He's still stronger, and it's not in his interests to kick me out. He has a waiting list for these rooms. I saw the list on the desk in his office on the first floor. Twenty names. Twenty girls who are ready to do anything within these walls. In my third year, I started dating a classmate, Dima. He was a nice guy, funny, a little awkward. We were walking and kissing in the park. He wanted more, but I didn't give in. Not because I didn't want to. I just couldn't. How do you explain that your body isn't really yours anymore? That someone else enters it on a schedule, like at a clinic? Dima was offended. He thought I didn't love him. I did. Probably. One day, the owner came over while Dima was visiting. We were just drinking tea. He opened the door with his key, walked in, and looked at us. Dima stood up, said hello. The owner nodded and said he'd come to check the window. The window was fine. Dima didn't suspect a thing. I showed him out and told him to get ready for the seminar. He left. But the owner stayed. And he fucked me on the same chair where Dima had just been sitting. I thought about Dima's cup still sitting on the table. The one with the blue border. Lena once told me that a girl from the first floor got pregnant. The owner gave her money for an abortion and let her live. She didn't tell anyone. She just went to the clinic and came back. I think she still lives there. Sometimes I see her in the entryway. Thin, pale, smoking on the stairs. We don't really talk. I got pregnant too. Last winter. At first, I didn't understand. I just felt sick in the mornings. Then I counted the days. I told him. He listened, nodded, and gave me an envelope. The envelope contained bukvoeb.org money. Enough for the clinic and a taxi there and back. He told me to take a week off. As if I were at work. I took it. I lay in my room, staring at the ceiling. There were still seven cracks. Only now I recognized each one. Dima doesn't know. We're still together. He talks about the future, about getting married after graduation, renting an apartment. A normal one, he says, not this shithole. I smile and nod. Sometimes I think he'll never know. And sometimes I think that even if he does, he still won't understand. How can I explain that I agreed to it myself? That I paid with myself, not money? That it was easier than looking for something else, something more expensive, something further away? Yesterday the owner came again. He was checking the faucet in the bathroom. The faucet wasn't dripping. I knew why he came. He came in and closed the door. I took off my robe myself. He didn't even order me. He just stood there and waited. I lay down on the bed and spread my legs. He came in. I looked at the ceiling. Cracks. I counted to myself. When he finished, he got up, got dressed, and went out. I remained lying there. Then I got up and went to the shower. The water was hot, good. You have to pay for that too. Today Dima suggested we move in together. He said he found a part-time job, enough for a decent apartment. I said I'd think about it. He was offended. He said I didn't love him. I said I did. It's true. But I don't know how to live without this ceiling. Without these seven cracks. Without his keys. Without his silence. He'll come again tomorrow. To check the wiring. I know what will happen. I know I won't refuse. And I know Dima won't find out.