Semyon

I knew him for a year, and that year was like a roller coaster, only with more ambiguous jokes and awkward situations. He was vulgar, yes, but that vulgarity was… charming? It's a sin, of course, to admit it, but there was a certain boyish enthusiasm in his cynicism that, damn, hooked me.

The evening began as usual: pizza, cheap wine, and below-the-belt jokes. But the tension hung in the air, thin as a spider's web. For some reason, he seemed nervous, making more jokes than usual. And then he stood up, tripped over the coffee table, and cursed so loudly that I couldn't help but laugh.

And then he pulled out a box. Small, velvety, and painfully familiar. He hesitated, blushed, and started saying something about how I "put up with his crappy humor for a whole year." Then he added that you'd probably have to be a complete fool not to realize I was his person.

The ring was beautiful, but it wasn't the ring itself. It was the way he looked at me—with fear, hope, and a certain tenderness he so carefully hid behind his cynicism. And I realized that the year with him hadn't just been a roller coaster. It had been preparation for this moment. And damn, I was ready to ride it again.