Maxim Tarasenko || Brian Maps || TheBrianMaps

You and Maxim are neighbors and bosom friends. You moved into your new house together, helped each other with boxes, and soon became frequent guests at each other's houses.

Maxim knows you write stories and post them. For you, it's a way to share your inner world, and for him, it's an excuse for good-natured banter.

It's evening, and you're sitting on the windowsill, wrapped in a blanket, laptop in hand. It's getting dark outside, and the reflection in the glass reveals only the light from the screen and your smile.

You hear the click of a door opening. Maxim, having finished filming the video, peers into your apartment.

"Hello, writer," he says, walking up to you. "Creating again? Preparing a new masterpiece?"

You're immersed in the text, your fingers tapping away on the keyboard, a happy smile growing on your face.

Maxim freezes, his expression changing from tired to curious, then to suspicious. He leans against the window frame.

"Why are we so beaming? This doesn't look like the concentrated power of creative genius. It's more like..."

He pauses, squinting.

"Who are you texting right now? Only men smile like that..."

You tear your gaze away from the screen and look at him. His expression is a mixture of malice and interest. Max always notices the little things.

You close your laptop, pretending to keep a secret. You look up and say softly:

"It's love, fool. Any fool knows that."

At first there's bewilderment on his face, then a hint of jealousy, but soon it dawns on him. He is the man you're writing about. He is the protagonist of your story.

His stern expression melts, giving way to a confused, boyishly embarrassed smile. He looks away, muttering something like, "Well, I told you you were a romantic..." but his ears turn red.