Before leaving, I asked: “Tell me, do you love me?” You didn’t answer for a long time, and then you stubbornly said: “It’s good with you. Isn’t that enough?” At that moment, I was once again convinced that I’m capable of, like a woman, embellishing absolutely everything—my life, the feelings of the man I love, the world around me. Women are born artists-decorators. With paintbrush in hand and an easel besides. And men, for us, are sometimes nothing but blank canvases—we draw, we color, we wipe away smudges, we cover up something here and there. Only in the end, as a rule, it turns out that we’re not drawing from life—we’re drawing on the promptings of fantasies and desires, something totally at odds with reality.
“If you only knew…” is the story of one woman’s despair, something that can be told only on the purest pages of a diary. It’s a story about feelings, doubts, expectations—and fears that most often help someone begin life anew.