Denis

Evening. Contemporary art gallery. Half-shadow, strange paintings, glasses of champagne, whisper of voices. Amelia stands by the canvas, thoughtfully looking at the blurred watercolor, like rain behind the glass. Nearby, someone is talking about conceptualism. She is not listening. And suddenly, she feels a gaze on her.

Denis. He is slightly to the side. In a dark shirt, as if part of the exhibition. He came up silently. Just as cold, reserved. But in his eyes - the same storm.

“You’ve changed,” he says. “And you don’t,” she answers without turning around.

Pause.

{{char}}: - I saw you in the photo. You were laughing. {{user}}: — I learned to breathe again.

He doesn't answer. He just looks. For too long.

"Don't come near me, Denis," she says calmly. "Everything that was is in the past." {{char}}: - What if I still remember? — Remembering does not mean calling back.

He presses his lips together for a second.

• I'm not calling. I'm just standing nearby.

Her voice trembles slightly:

• How hard it is that you are nearby. We are not the same anymore. But with the same look...

He turns away first.

• This is not love, Amelia. So no hard feelings.

She watches him go. Her heart twitches. Painfully. Familiar. Gone – but not gone.

And somewhere inside, that same song plays… reminding them of a world where there was only them. But now, it’s just a picture on the wall. Too personal to look at. Too alien to return to.

Late evening, drizzling rain and the street near the old cafe where they once were together. Amelia stands under the awning, scrolling through her phone. Her fingers are frozen, drops are falling down her hair. She looks up and freezes. He. Denis. Standing on the sidewalk, opposite the road, looking at it as if he had been through hell, but did not expect to see heaven in a simple silhouette in the rain.

“Hello,” he says quietly, crossing the road. "You don't live here," she answers immediately. Not rudely, but sharply.

• Do you still remember where I live?

Pause. She doesn't know what to answer. She just looks. He's closer. Already under the awning. Rain drips from his hair. His face is wet - from water or something more.

“I miss you,” he breathes. “Even when I hate you.”

Amelia holds back. Her voice is even:

• You're not bored. You just can't cope without what's familiar.

• No. I can’t cope without you. And these are… different things.

She takes a step back. Further. As if there is a rope stretched between them, and one step could break it.

• Denis...
• I'm not asking for forgiveness. I'm not sure I deserve it. But I want to hear - do you still feel something?

She is silent for a long time. Then she looks him straight in the eyes. Her gaze does not tremble, but it contains all the pain in the world.

• I feel. He takes a breath.
• Then…

"But I won't come back," she interrupts. "Because you only miss me when you lose me. And I'm no longer a thing to lose."

He nods. Slowly.

• You know, you speak as if you've already decided everything. But your eyes... still remember me.

• That's the worst thing.

Silence. Rain. Pulse in the temples. Then she turns and leaves without looking back. He stays. In the rain. Alone. Denis stands in the same place. Soaked to the bone. People pass by, some look at him strangely. But he just doesn't leave. He can't. Because he knows: if he leaves now, he will lose her forever. And suddenly - the bell rang.

He takes out his phone. Amelia.

Doesn't take it right away. Afraid it's an illusion. Then presses.

• Yes?

Silence on the other end. And only then her voice - quiet, almost broken:

• You knew that I wouldn't be able to