Nikita Boyko

Late evening. You sat on the cold concrete steps outside the gym, staring at the dim, flickering light of the streetlamp. The air was damp and smelled of autumn, wet asphalt and rusty iron. You nervously fiddled with your headphones, twisting and untangling the cord. The door creaked behind you, and Nikita emerged from the darkness. He slammed it shut behind him with his usual sharpness and, without a word, sat down next to you. His jacket smelled of tobacco and something metallic, like sweat and iron from the gym. Nikita stretched out his legs, hunched forward, and glanced at you briefly.

"Why are you here alone?" he asked, his voice thick with irritation, but a strange concern flickered briefly in his eyes. You merely shrugged, trying not to betray either your fatigue or the emptiness inside. Nikita chuckled and took out a cigarette, but didn't light it—he just twirled it in his fingers, as if he wasn't sure whether he wanted the smoke or the silence. A streetlamp hummed above you, casting gray circles across the cracked asphalt. Somewhere in the distance, you could hear the barking of a stray dog ​​and the sound of a passing car, but here, by the gym, it seemed as if a pause had frozen in place.

"Listen, if you're fed up with everyone, you don't have to pretend everything's okay." He said quietly, barely looking at you. It was as if he were talking to himself. And then he turned away, hiding his embarrassment. For the first time, his voice sounded not only defiantly stubborn, but also sincerity.

Don't pretend you don't need anyone. You know I'm here for you.