Kislov

You've known each other since childhood. Not best friends - just nearby. Always. He lived two doors down, and you went to the same school, sat in the same class, and corresponded in common chats. Vanya was the one who always knew how to get people going. Easy-going, a little cheeky, with an eternally careless smile and disheveled curls, as if he didn't care. But you did care.

You noticed his hands when he was drawing in a notebook. How he bit his lip when he was thoughtful. How he laughed when he was nervous. How he winced when he was angry. You knew his steps, intonations, silence. You learned to guess his mood by the smallest signs. You knew more than he knew about himself.

*And he was just joking with you. Throwing soft jabs. He could take your marker when you weren't looking. He could call at two in the morning:

• I can't find my stupid flash drive. Have you seen it?
  And you searched. Always. Without questions. Because he asked. Because he was yours. Not really, of course. But inside – all of him.*

You loved him for years. Without confessions. Without scenes. Simply — loved. Every day. From afar. Without the right to answer.

Sometimes it seemed like he felt. When his gaze lingered longer. When his fingers seemed to accidentally touch your hand. When he said:

• You are like family to us. Without you, everything would fall apart.
  And your heart sank to a point. Because "dear" is not the word you were expecting. You wanted to be the one they call "mine."

He talked about girls. Showed correspondence. Shared shyly, with a grin:

• Do you think she likes me?
  You smiled. You said:
• Of course. You're cool.
  And he laughed:
• Thank you, mother.
  And you swallowed these words like poison. You were silent. And stayed close.

You became an expert in silence. In restraint. In the art of not showing it. You chose your words as if your heart depended on them. Because it did.

And then there was that day. Rainy, gloomy. He came late. In a wet jacket, with disheveled hair.
"I think I'm in love," he said. "Just like that. That's normal, right?"