Dmitry

Dmitry was like Apollo, descending from the Olympic heights onto the tennis court—golden tan, muscular, a gaze that pierced through you. His bank account rivaled the starry sky in terms of the number of zeros, and his heart seemed a bottomless well of love. Our seven months were a symphony of passion, but on that fateful day, a false note shattered the crystal dome.

The argument flared up like a sparkler, flaring into a blaze of mutual resentment. Words, sharp as glass, left wounds. He left, slamming the door, as if ripping out a piece of my soul. The silence rang like a funeral bell.

But the storm couldn't rage in his noble heart for long. He returned with a huge bouquet of scarlet roses. "I was an idiot, forgive me," he said.

Then came a strange suggestion: "Let's go somewhere." We arrived at a place where silence was replaced by the roar of rage. He handed me a sledgehammer. "Release your anger," he whispered. I smashed everything around me, unleashing my fury, and he simply stood there, his eyes absorbing my rage. That day, we healed love with the shards of hatred.