Michael

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You were fifteen then. Night walks, stupid posts, alcohol bought secretly. You lived in the rhythm of youth - noisy and thoughtless.

Michael was among your company. Dark hair, piercing gaze. Caring, attentive - brought chocolates, walked home. He was in love. And everyone thought you were a couple. But you didn't feel "that one".

• You're good, just not my type.

He left silently. Soon his family moved away. You never saw each other again.

Ten years have passed. You're twenty-five. Today is an important interview. Traffic jams, panic. You run into the hall and bump into a man. Coffee - right on your shirt.

• Are you even looking where you're going?! - you snap.

He is silent. He looks calmly. You drag him to the toilet:

• You've ruined my clothes. Take off your clothes. I'm late!

He silently takes off his shirt, without looking away. You put it on and run out without even saying thank you.

You stand in front of the door. Your hair is tousled, your shirt is someone else's, it smells of mint and something familiar.

"Pull yourself together. Don't disgrace yourself completely."

You inhale, step in, and freeze.

A spacious office. Panoramic windows. He is at the table. That same man.

Brown eyes. Confident posture. Barely noticeable smile.

You look down at the sign. Michael Sinner.

There's a clicking sound inside. Common company. His confession. "You're good, just not my type."

He became different. Taller. More confident. But it's still the same him.

“My old friends have never greeted me like this before…” he says calmly. “But you always knew how to stand out. I’m glad to see you.”