Angelika

I still remember the day I left Ukraine. The bus was packed, the air heavy with anxiety, yet tinged with hope. I wasn’t the only one leaving for Poland—there were many of us. Some were going for short-term jobs, some seeking permanent change. For me, it was both a necessity and an escape. The war had left its mark, and though my family supported me, I knew I couldn’t depend on them forever. Poland offered work, better pay, and a way to start fresh. When I arrived in Warsaw, everything felt new—too big, too fast. The language was different, but not unfamiliar. I had learned a bit of Polish back in school, though I wasn\'t confident. I quickly found a job as a waitress in a local bar. It wasn’t glamorous, but it paid enough to cover rent and save a little. Plus, I liked meeting new people. Every night, the bar would fill with locals and travelers alike. And it was on one of these nights that I met Damian. Damian was a regular—tall, with a kind smile and an easy-going charm. He didn’t drink much, mostly coffee or a single beer. He liked to sit at the corner of the bar and chat with me when I wasn’t busy. At first, I didn’t pay much attention to him beyond the usual customer service. But over time, we got to talking more. He asked me about Ukraine, about why I came to Poland, and shared his own stories. Damian was different from the other men who frequented the bar—he seemed genuinely interested in me as a person. A few weeks passed, and Damian asked me out. It wasn’t a grand gesture, just a simple, “Want to grab a coffee sometime?” I agreed. That night, we met at a small café downtown. It was nothing fancy, but it felt intimate. We talked for hours about everything—life, dreams, the struggles of living abroad. It was easy to be around him. He made me laugh, and for a while, I forgot about all the reasons I had left home. As we started seeing each other more often, Damian introduced me to his circle of friends. They were successful—entrepreneurs, investors, and people who lived lives I had only seen in movies. I couldn’t help but feel out of place. I was just a girl from a small town in Ukraine, working in a bar, while they drove expensive cars and wore designer clothes. But Damian didn’t seem to mind. He treated me well, always making sure I was comfortable and taken care of. It wasn’t long before Damian started hinting at ways I could make more money. I was struggling with rent and sending money back home to my family, so the idea was tempting. He mentioned that some of his friends ran businesses that could offer me opportunities—\"exclusive services,\" he called them. I knew what he meant, even if he didn’t say it outright. At first, I was horrified. I had heard stories about girls who got into that line of work, and it wasn’t something I ever thought I’d consider. But as the weeks went by, the bills piled up, and the reality of my situation became harder to ignore. The bar job barely covered my basic needs, and the future I had imagined when I first arrived in Poland seemed farther away than ever. Damian was supportive, never pressuring me, but he made it clear that the option was there if I ever changed my mind. One night, after a particularly difficult shift at the bar, I found myself sitting with Damian in his apartment, sipping wine. He asked me how I was doing, and for the first time, I admitted how overwhelmed I felt. He listened, and then gently suggested that maybe it was time to think about his offer. He assured me it wasn’t as bad as it seemed. \"It’s not what you think,\" he said. \"It’s exclusive, high-end. You’d be in control.\" I don’t know if it was the wine, the exhaustion, or the feeling of being trapped, but something in me snapped that night. I agreed to try it, just once. “Just to see,” I told myself. The next day, Damian introduced me to a woman named Marta. She was older, elegant, and spoke with a calm confidence. She explained how everything worked—discretion was key, the clients were wealthy, and safety was a priority. The first time was surreal. I felt disconnected from myself, like I was watching someone else go through the motions. The man was polite, even kind, and it wasn’t as terrible as I had imagined. But afterward, I couldn’t shake the feeling of shame that settled deep in my chest. I told myself it was just temporary, that I would stop once I had enough money to get back on my feet. Weeks turned into months, and before I knew it, I was caught in a cycle. The money was good, better than anything I could have earned working in the bar. I sent more money home, bought nicer clothes, and even moved into a better apartment. But with each step forward, I felt like I was losing a part of myself. The girl who had left Ukraine in search of a better life was slipping away, replaced by someone I barely recognized. Damian stayed by my side, always supportive, always encouraging. But there were times when I looked at him and wondered if he ever really cared about me, or if I was just another part of his world—a pretty face to show off, a girl who had fallen into the trap he had set. I couldn’t help but feel used, even if I had made the choice myself. Now, as I sit here writing this, I think about how far I’ve come and how far I’ve fallen. I don’t blame Damian entirely—after all, I made the decision. But I can’t shake the feeling that things could have been different. Maybe if I had stayed in Ukraine, maybe if I had found another job, maybe if I hadn’t met him that night in the bar. But there’s no going back now. All I can do is keep moving forward, hoping that one day I’ll find a way out of this life I never meant to live.