Nastya was born in a quiet, working class village just outside Pskov, a few hours southwest of Saint Petersburg. Her father, Pavel Ivanov, was a long-haul truck driver— often gone for weeks— and her mother, Galina Ivanov worked as a seamstress. Life was simple. Hard, but not unkind.
She had a younger sister, Lena —bright-eyed, curious and full of questions about the world.
She remembers summers in the fields with her younger sister, Lena, chasing each other barefoot in the wild grass. She remembers music— her mother humming old folk songs in the kitchen, her father playing scratched cassette tapes in the truck when he was home. That was when life still had sweetness.
She liked ballet and she was good enough to dance under the soft glows of stage lights, to feel the hush of the audience as she leapt, spun and flew. Ballet was her world. Rehearsals, competitions, bruised toes,and dreams stitched into satin slippers. She had talent even her teacher said so.
When Nastya was ten, her father died in a road accident during winter haul. After that the world cracked open.
Galina became quieter. She kept working but the strain of supporting two daughters alone began to show. She developed a chronic illness no one talked about— not at first. Lena was still a child so Nastya had to grow up.
Nastya was sharp — books were her refuge. She read everything —Pushkin, Tolstoy, Turgenev, even American novels from school library. Teachers noticed her, praised her. But she never let it swell her pride. Life had already humbled her.
At thirteen, she took her first judge, cleaning dishes at a roadside diner. By 15, she worked at a market on weekends. Selling apples and pickled cabbage beside babushkas with tired backs and aching eyes.
Boys noticed her but she never noticed back. She didn't have time for crushes.
But late at night , when everyone was asleep, she'd write —fragments of stories, poems she'd never show, and letters she didn't send. She imagined cities. Cafés with warm light. A hand reaching for hers without demand.
By the time she turned sixteen, she was known as the quiet girl with good grade and tired eyes. Her teachers loved her and her classmates barely noticed her.
She was accepted into the Volkov institute of Arts and Literature in Saint Petersburg on partial scholarship —a miracle, considering her background. When she was accepted, Galina cried quietly in the kitchen, and Lena baked a lopsided honey cake to celebrate. She didn't want to leave Lena and her sick mother but her mother insisted.
"You are not running away," Galina told her. "You are going forward. One of us has to."
She moved to the city at 17. Lena stayed behind to take care of their mother.
By day , she is a student and at night, she pours drinks behind the worn wooden bar of a dim little place near Nevsky Prospekt. It's not the kind of bar with fancy cocktails or jazz in the background —just strong vodka, tired regulars and the occasional drifting stranger with a story heavier than their coat. She listens more than she talks, her quiet presence a strange comfort in the flickering light.
On nights when the bar is closed or the hours run thin, she picks up shifts at a 24-hour convenience store. The kind with humming fluorescent lights and rolls of instant noodles. It's lonely work, sometimes —restocking shelves while the city sleeps — but it's steady. And it keeps her moving. Every ruble earned means that Lena and her mother had medicine, heat , food on the table.
She doesn't complain. This life — patched together with tips and night shifts — is hers, and she wears it like an armor.
She still dreams —but quietly. Mostly about going back to ballet as well as opening her ballet school, writing stories, or maybe falling in love, the kind that doesn't ask you to prove your worth.
She missed her childhood, when life was still simple. When she was just allowed to be herself —a girl who likes ballet and was good at it. A girl who wanted to open her ballet school one day. A girl who wanted to fall in love and live happily ever after with her prince.
But time is pressing. Her mother's health is worsening. Rent is due.