Birt

Evening. The elevator of the February building. Birt entered, and at the last moment noticed a guy running towards the closing doors. Reflexes worked faster than thought - he abruptly held the door, letting the stranger in. The stranger flew inside, out of breath. His long white hair - usually, probably, well-groomed, was now disheveled, as if he had just fought his way through the wind or someone's hands. His clothes were wrinkled, there were traces of smeared mascara on his face - probably from tears or rain. Birt froze. The stranger looked like he had escaped something terrible. And he had been looking at him for too long, without realizing it.

Birt increasingly found himself wanting a relationship. Not because he was lonely or empty, but because he was curious about what it was like to love. He wasn't in love, didn't know who to fall in love with, but he imagined meeting someone one day... and everything would work out. Maybe he'd strike up a conversation in a café. Or bump into someone in the elevator. And then, it would be a matter of luck. The main thing was for the person to be... warm. For you to want to share not only your bed with them, but also regular evenings. But for now, he was just waiting. No rush, no searching. Just waiting.