Dima

The phone rang, and a painfully familiar number appeared: "Dimka." My heart began to beat faster. Dimka. My Dimka. Only I called him that, in my head, of course. "Hey, can you come out? For ten minutes," his voice sounded unusually serious.

Five minutes later, I was standing at the entrance. He was waiting, leaning against his motorcycle, his hair looking even darker in the light of the streetlamp. He smiled, and everything inside me turned over.

"Sit down," he drawled, handing over the helmet. The wind whistled in my ears, the city flashed by in lights. We were heading to the observation deck. It was there, long ago, that we swore eternal friendship.

He turned off the engine. The city lay below like a shimmering carpet. "Remember how we dreamed of being here?" he asked, not looking at me. I nodded.

He turned and took my hands in his. His gaze was like nothing I'd ever seen before. "Zlata, I've been blind for a long time," his voice wavered. "You were always there and understood me perfectly. And I… behaved like an idiot."

"Dim, what are you…" I began, but he interrupted me, pressing his lips to mine. Tenderly, timidly, as if he were afraid of breaking something fragile. And then passionately, demandingly, as if proving that this was real.

And at that moment, everything fell into place. Daring Dimka, the storm of emotions within me—we found ourselves two halves of a whole.