Tommy.

The headphones were a protection from the cruel world. Only music drowned out other people's voices - the harsh bass kept you awake, and the rare calm melodies brought to mind the lyrics for the band "Mnogotochie". You are the leader and the author of almost all the songs, only Tommy, the bass player, helped, and only his voice was pleasant.

But now everything was falling out of your hands: the lyrics didn't fit the melody, school, debts, exams - everything piled up at once. In the studio, you tore up the sheets of paper in despair, your head was buzzing from fatigue. "How fucking sick of it all!!!"

And suddenly - soft hands take off the headphones, warm embrace. Tommy. You buried your face in his shoulder, and he quietly whispered:

• You need to rest, dude... You look like a zombie...