When I agreed to meet my Russian woman friend, I never imagined the night would spiral into a web of secrets, danger, and deception. What started as a simple dinner quickly unraveled into something far more sinister.
At 45, you’d think I’d have it all figured out. A career, a comfortable apartment in Paris, and a lifetime of experience under my belt. And yet, here I was, staring at my laptop screen late at night, wondering why love seemed to slip through my fingers like sand. My name is Ludovic, and I’m a programmer by trade, a romantic by nature, and, perhaps most notably, someone who has loved and lost more times than I’d care to admit.
I’ve been married three times. Yes, three. Each time began with fireworks and promises, but somehow, the endings always felt inevitable. I’d meet someone, fall head over heels, and then—just as quickly—watch it all unravel. It wasn’t that I didn’t try. I did. But somewhere along the way, the connection would fade, the spark would dim, and we’d part ways with a sigh and a shrug. I suppose you could call it a pattern, one I couldn’t seem to break.
After my last divorce, I decided to focus on work. Programming has always been a refuge for me—a world of logic and order where everything makes sense if you just follow the rules. Unlike relationships, code doesn’t argue back or leave you wondering where you went wrong. I worked remotely for a tech company, which gave me the freedom to travel when I wanted to. Not that I did much of that anymore. Paris had become my bubble, a city filled with memories of failed romances and fleeting connections.
But one evening, as I sat alone in my apartment with a glass of red wine and the glow of my laptop screen for company, I realized something needed to change. I couldn’t spend the rest of my life like this—working, eating, sleeping, and repeating the cycle day after day. I wanted more. I wanted love. Real love. The kind that lasts.
That’s when an idea struck me. What if I was looking in the wrong place? What if the problem wasn’t me—or the women I’d dated—but the fact that we came from the same world? Maybe what I needed was someone who saw life differently. Someone who could challenge me, surprise me. Someone… from another culture.
My mind drifted to Russia.
It might sound odd, but Russia had always fascinated me. My father—a retired history teacher with a passion for all things Slavic—used to tell me stories about its vast landscapes, rich culture, and resilient people. He’d talk about Tolstoy and Tchaikovsky as if they were old friends and dream aloud about visiting Moscow or St. Petersburg someday. He never did, of course. Life got in the way, as it often does.
But his stories stayed with me. There was something about Russia that seemed mysterious and intriguing—a place where emotions ran deep and traditions were cherished. And then there were the women: strong, intelligent, beautiful in a way that felt timeless. Or maybe that was just my imagination.
Either way, the idea of finding a Russian date intrigued me.
I hesitated for a moment before typing “Russian dating sites” into Google. The search results were overwhelming—dozens of websites promising to connect me with my future bride. It all felt a bit… transactional. But then I found one site that seemed more genuine—a platform for people interested in cultural exchange as much as romance.
“Why not?” I muttered to myself as I clicked on the link.
Creating a profile at 45 felt ridiculous, but I figured honesty was my best shot. My profile read:
“Bonjour! My name is Ludovic. I’m 45 years old, a programmer by profession and a dreamer by nature. I’ve always been fascinated by Russia—its history, its culture, its people—and I’d love to meet someone who can share their world with me. Ideally, I’m looking for a student or someone with a passion for learning who speaks French (or wants to improve!). Let’s see where this journey takes us.”
I stared at the screen for a moment before hitting “submit.” Was this crazy? Probably. But what did I have to lose?
—
The first few days were uneventful—just a handful of messages from women whose profiles didn’t quite match what I was looking for. Some were too polished, too perfect; others seemed more interested in practicing their English than building a connection.
One evening, while scrolling through profiles and sipping another glass of wine, I found myself talking to my father on the phone.
“Papa,” I said casually, “do you still dream about visiting Russia?”
“Every day,” he replied with a chuckle. “Why do you ask?”
“I’ve been thinking about it,” I admitted. “Maybe it’s time to see it for myself.”
“Ah,” he said knowingly. “And is this about Russia? Or are you looking for something else?”
I laughed nervously. “Maybe both.”
“Well,” he said after a pause, “if you do go… make sure you find someone who shares your dreams.”
His words stuck with me as I logged back into the dating site later that night.
And then she appeared.
—
Her message was simple: “Hello! My name is Nastya. I’m 23 years old and studying French literature in Moscow. Your profile caught my attention—I’d love to practice my French with you!”
I clicked on her profile and was immediately struck by her photo: a young woman with bright eyes and an easy smile standing in front of what looked like Red Square. Her bio was short but charming: “Lover of books, languages, and good coffee. Dreaming of seeing Paris someday!”
I couldn’t help but smile as I typed out my reply.
“Bonjour, Nastya! Thank you for your message—it’s lovely to meet you. Of course, I’d be happy to help with your French! And who knows? Maybe one day we’ll see Paris together.”
Her response came quickly: “Deal! But only if you promise to try Russian blini when you visit Moscow.”
The idea of visiting Moscow had crossed my mind before—I’d even mentioned it in passing to my father—but now it felt like more than just a fantasy. It felt… possible.
“Nastya,” I typed cautiously after a pause, “what if I told you I was thinking about coming to Moscow? Would you show me around?”
Her reply came quickly: “Really? You’d come all this way just to meet me?”
“Well,” I teased, “and to try those blini you promised.”
She sent another laughing emoji before writing: “Okay! But only if you promise not to judge my French too harshly.”
“I promise,” I replied with a grin.
As I closed my laptop that night, one thought lingered in my mind: maybe this wasn’t crazy after all. Maybe this was exactly what I needed—a chance to step outside my comfort zone and discover something new.
Because sometimes, when life feels stagnant, the only solution is to take a leap into the unknown—and hope that someone on the other side is ready to catch you.
—
When I first stepped off the plane in Moscow, the cold hit me like a slap. It wasn’t just the temperature—it was the air itself, sharp and raw, as if it had been waiting to test me. I pulled my scarf tighter around my neck and took a deep breath. This was it. Russia. A place I’d only ever seen in books, films, and my father’s stories. And now, here I was, standing on its soil, about to meet someone who had somehow managed to pull me out of my routine and into something completely unpredictable.
Nastya.
The name itself felt like a melody, soft and yet full of promise. We had been talking for months—long conversations over video calls, messages that stretched late into the night. She had this way of making me laugh at myself, of challenging my assumptions without being confrontational. She was different from anyone I had ever met. And now, after all those virtual exchanges, I was finally here to meet her in person.
I wasn’t sure what to expect. I mean, how do you prepare for meeting someone who has already become such a big part of your life but whom you’ve never actually stood face-to-face with? It felt surreal. And terrifying.
The café where we were supposed to meet was small and cozy, tucked away on a quiet street near Red Square. I arrived early, partly because I didn’t want to keep her waiting and partly because I needed a moment to collect myself. As I stepped inside, the warmth of the room embraced me like an old friend. The smell of coffee and pastries filled the air, and the windows were frosted with intricate patterns from the cold outside.
I spotted Rita first. Nastya had told me about her—her best friend, her confidante, the one who always looked out for her. Rita was sitting at a corner table, her posture straight and her eyes sharp as they scanned the room. When she saw me, she waved hesitantly.
“Bonjour,” I said as I approached.
“Hello,” she replied in Russian before switching to English. “You must be Ludovic.”
“Yes,” I said, smiling as I sat down. “And you are Rita?”
“That’s me,” she said, studying me carefully. “Nastya will be here soon. She’s running late.”
I nodded, feeling a bit awkward under her scrutiny. She was protective, I could tell. And rightly so. If the roles were reversed, I’d probably be doing the same thing—making sure some stranger from another country wasn’t here to hurt my best friend.
We made small talk while we waited—about Moscow, about Paris, about the weather. Rita was polite but guarded, her words measured. I didn’t mind. It gave me time to soak in my surroundings, to get a feel for this place that had always seemed so distant and mysterious.
When Nastya finally arrived, everything else faded into the background.
“Ludo!” she called out as she rushed toward me.
Hearing her voice in person for the first time was like hearing a favorite song played live. She threw her arms around me in an awkward but heartfelt hug, and I couldn’t help but laugh.
“You’re really here,” she said, pulling back to look at me.
“I told you I would come,” I replied.
And just like that, the tension melted away. The three of us spent hours talking and laughing in that little café. Nastya was exactly as I had imagined—warm, curious, full of life. And Rita? Well, by the end of the evening, even she seemed to soften toward me.
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But it wasn’t until later, when Nastya and I were walking through Red Square, that I felt the full weight of what this trip meant.
The square was breathtaking at night. The snow glittered under the lights, and St. Basil’s Cathedral stood like something out of a fairy tale with its colorful domes and intricate details. Nastya walked beside me, her hands buried deep in her coat pockets.
“It’s strange,” she said after a while.
“What is?” I asked.
“This,” she said, gesturing around us. “You being here. Us walking together like this.”
“Strange good or strange bad?” I teased.
She smiled. “Strange good.”
We stopped near a bench overlooking the square. She turned to face me, her expression thoughtful.
—
“You know,” she said slowly, “when we first started talking, I never thought it would lead to this.”
“Neither did I,” I admitted.
“But here we are,” she said with a small laugh.
“Here we are,” I echoed.
There was a pause, comfortable but charged with unspoken questions. Finally, she broke the silence.
“I should tell you something,” she said.
“Okay,” I said cautiously.
“I’m not leaving Russia,” she said firmly. “Not permanently.”
I blinked, caught off guard by her sudden declaration. “I… wasn’t expecting you to.”
She looked relieved but also a little surprised. “You weren’t?”
“No,” I said honestly. “Nastya, this isn’t about me trying to take you away from your life here. I came because… well, because I wanted to see if what we have is real.”
“And is it?” she asked softly.
I hesitated for a moment before answering. “I think it could be.”
Her smile widened at that. “Good.”
“But…” I added cautiously, “if you’re not leaving Russia, does that mean you wouldn’t want to visit Paris?”
Her eyes lit up at the mention of Paris—a reaction that didn’t go unnoticed. “Oh, I’d love to visit Paris,” she said quickly. “I’ve always dreamed of seeing it.”
“Then come,” I said simply.
She laughed as if it were that easy—and maybe it was. “We’ll see,” she said playfully.
As we continued walking through Red Square that night, I couldn’t help but marvel at how different this place felt from what I had imagined. Growing up in France during the Cold War era, Russia had always seemed like this distant, impenetrable land filled with gloomy people living under constant gray skies. But now that I was here—standing in its snow-covered streets, talking with its people—I realized how wrong those stereotypes had been.
Yes, Moscow was cold in December. Yes, its people could seem reserved at first glance. But there was warmth here too—a quiet resilience and an unspoken camaraderie that reminded me of home in ways I hadn’t expected.
And then there was Nastya—my Russian girl friend, as we had jokingly called each other during our first few conversations online. She wasn’t just a date anymore; she was someone who made me want to step out of my comfort zone and see the world through new eyes.
As we parted ways that night—her heading back to her apartment and me returning to my hotel—I couldn’t stop thinking about what she had said earlier: I’m not leaving Russia.
It didn’t bother me—not really. Because for the first time in years, I felt like my life wasn’t limited by borders or routines or expectations. This trip wasn’t just about meeting Nastya or exploring Moscow; it was about discovering something bigger than myself.
And maybe—just maybe—it was only the beginning.
—
The morning of our flight to Paris, everything felt surreal. My suitcase was packed, Nastya’s too, and we’d spent the last few days walking Moscow’s streets, laughing over cups of tea, and planning all the things we’d do in France. I’d even made a list of places to show her—Montmartre, the Seine at sunset, a hidden café near Saint-Germain where I used to code for hours before life got too busy. This wasn’t just some fleeting fling anymore. It felt like something real.
Nastya had been everything I imagined and more. In real life, she was even warmer than in our video calls—her laughter louder, her smile brighter. She had this way of lighting up a room, of pulling you into her orbit without even trying. She was lively, talkative, and fiercely intelligent. We’d spent hours debating art, history, and technology—her knowledge of French literature had put me to shame more than once. She was the kind of person who made you want to be better, smarter, more alive.
I couldn’t believe my luck. My “Russian date,” as I still jokingly called her, had turned out to be someone extraordinary.
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But life has a way of flipping everything upside down just when you think you’ve got it figured out.
We arrived at the airport early. I was nervous—not about the flight, but about what this trip meant. Bringing Nastya to Paris felt like a big step, like introducing her to my world in a way that would make everything more permanent. She seemed excited too, though there was a flicker of something in her eyes I couldn’t quite place. Anxiety? Anticipation? I chalked it up to nerves.
As we approached the check-in counter, Nastya squeezed my hand. “You ready for this?” she asked with a grin.
“I should be asking you that,” I teased. “Paris can be overwhelming.”
“I’ll manage,” she said confidently.
She handed over her passport and ticket while I stood beside her, holding mine. The woman behind the counter—a young clerk with tired eyes—typed something into her computer. At first, everything seemed normal. But then her expression changed. Her brow furrowed slightly as she stared at the screen.
“Is there a problem?” Nastya asked, her voice calm but edged with curiosity.
“One moment,” the clerk said in Russian before excusing herself and disappearing into a back room.
Nastya’s grip on the counter tightened. I noticed her knuckles turn white.
“What’s going on?” I asked quietly.
“I don’t know,” she said quickly, avoiding my gaze. “Probably nothing.”
But it didn’t feel like nothing. There was a tension in the air now, sharp and electric. I glanced around the terminal, suddenly hyper-aware of everything—the hum of voices, the distant announcements over the intercom, the cold light spilling through the windows.
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The clerk returned a few minutes later with a man in uniform. He looked official—security or maybe airport management. They whispered something to each other before turning their attention back to us.
“Miss… Nastya Ivanova?” the man said in Russian.
“Yes,” she replied, her voice steady but quieter than usual.
“Could you please come with us for a moment? There seems to be an issue with your documents.”
Nastya hesitated for only a second before nodding. “Of course.”
She turned to me and forced a smile. “It’s probably just some bureaucratic nonsense,” she said in French. “You know how these things are.”
“Do you want me to come with you?” I asked.
“No need,” she said quickly. “Stay here with our bags. I’ll sort it out and be back in no time.”
Something about the way she said it felt off, but I didn’t push. I watched as she followed the man and the clerk toward a side door near the check-in counters. And then she was gone.
Minutes passed. Then more minutes. I checked my watch, fidgeted with my phone, tried not to let my mind spiral into worst-case scenarios. Maybe it really was just some mix-up—a typo on her passport or a glitch in the system.
But then I saw her.
—
She wasn’t walking back toward me with an apologetic smile or waving me over to join her at the counter. No, she was running—fast and low, like someone trying not to be noticed but moving too urgently to blend in.
“Nastya?” I called out instinctively.
She didn’t stop. Didn’t even glance my way.
I froze for a moment, unsure of what to do. Should I chase her? Call out again? But before I could decide, something else caught my eye—a bulletin board near the entrance to the terminal.
Her face was on it.
I walked toward it slowly, my legs feeling like they were moving through water. There she was—Nastya—or at least the girl I thought was Nastya. Her photo was printed on what looked like an official notice, alongside text in Russian that I couldn’t fully understand but didn’t need to. The words “WANTED” and “POLICE” were clear enough.
My heart pounded in my chest as pieces of the puzzle started falling into place—her reluctance to talk about certain parts of her life, the way she always steered conversations away from personal details, that flicker of unease in her eyes at the airport.
Who was she? Who had I been spending these past weeks with?
I turned back toward the terminal entrance just in time to see her disappear through the sliding glass doors. She didn’t look back.
For a moment, I considered running after her. But what would I say? What would I do? And honestly… did I even want answers?
The realization hit me like a punch to the gut: I didn’t know this woman at all. Not really. The lively, talkative girl who had challenged me to see the world differently—the one who had convinced me to leave behind my routines and take a chance on something new—wasn’t who she claimed to be.
I stood there in stunned silence as airport security swarmed the area, their radios crackling with activity. Someone shouted in Russian; others pointed toward the exit where Nastya had fled.
I didn’t wait around to see what happened next. Grabbing my suitcase, I headed for the nearest taxi stand outside. My flight back to Paris wasn’t until later that evening, but suddenly all I wanted was to leave—Moscow, Russia, this entire surreal chapter of my life.
As the taxi sped away from the airport, I stared out at the snowy streets blurring past and tried to make sense of it all. Part of me felt foolish—how could I have been so blind? But another part of me couldn’t help but admire her audacity. Whoever she really was, Nastya—or whatever her name might be—had lived boldly, unapologetically, even if it meant leaving chaos in her wake.
And as strange as it sounds… I didn’t regret meeting her.
My woman friend had turned out to be nothing like what I’d expected. But she’d also taught me something important: life doesn’t always go according to plan—and maybe that’s okay.
By the time my plane took off that evening, I knew one thing for sure: this wasn’t an ending. It was just another beginning.