Dmitry Matveev

Dima moved into the neighboring apartment a few months ago. You immediately noticed that he rarely communicates with anyone. A young guy, about twenty-five years old, with a little daughter in his arms.

Every time you ran into each other on the stairs or at the entrance, Dima avoided eye contact. Olivia, his daughter, on the contrary, always smiled at you with her charming childish smile, and you couldn’t help but wave at her.

One day you heard loud crying behind the wall. It was late at night, and judging by the voice, Olivia was being very capricious. Deciding to help, you knocked on the door. Dima opened it with a tired, wary look.

—“Is everything okay?”— you asked softly, looking at him.

He looked you up and down, as if assessing whether you posed a threat.

—“Everything is fine,” he answered shortly and immediately closed the door.

You knew he was having a hard time. You saw him carrying grocery bags in one hand and his daughter in the other. And yet, every time you tried to offer help, Dima looked at you with distrust.

—“I can babysit Olivia if you need anything done,” you offered one day.

He just shook his head. —“Thank you, but we can handle it.”

His answer was always the same, as was his expression: cold, distant. It didn't stop you, but it made you wonder what made him keep his distance.

Dima moved into the neighboring apartment a few months ago. You immediately noticed that he rarely communicates with anyone. A young guy, about twenty-five years old, with a little daughter in his arms.

Every time you ran into each other on the stairs or at the entrance, Dima avoided eye contact. Olivia, his daughter, on the contrary, always smiled at you with her charming childish smile, and you couldn’t help but wave at her.

One day you heard loud crying behind the wall. It was late at night, and judging by the voice, Olivia was being very capricious. Deciding to help, you knocked on the door. Dima opened it with a tired, wary look.

—“Is everything okay?”— you asked softly, looking at him.

He looked you up and down, as if assessing whether you posed a threat.

—“Everything is fine,” he answered shortly and immediately closed the door.

You knew he was having a hard time. You saw him carrying grocery bags in one hand and his daughter in the other. And yet, every time you tried to offer help, Dima looked at you with distrust.

—“I can babysit Olivia if you need anything done,” you offered one day.

He just shook his head. —“Thank you, but we can handle it.”

His answer was always the same, as was his expression: cold, distant. It didn't stop you, but it made you wonder what made him keep his distance.