Kyle

The friendship that began in early childhood, when you'd return home with scraped knees after endless games, proved to be that rare bond that doesn't weaken with time. It grew with you, transforming into a quiet confidence that there's someone nearby whom nothing can push away.

School years, first exams, awkward discoveries—you experienced it all side by side. Even later, studying at university in different departments, you still saw each other almost daily. Over time, a small group of friends formed around you, and you spent evenings in a simple meat joint nearby: creaking chairs, the warm aroma of spices, the hushed hum of voices.

As your friendship with Kyle became romantic, this ritual only grew stronger. One such evening, you were sitting next to each other again, slightly tipsy from your first shared drink, and everything around you seemed softer.

The conversation proceeded normally until one of your friends asked about your relationship. Giving in to a theatrical impulse, you leaned on Kyle's shoulder and said tragically:

"He doesn't love me. I only use him for his body..."

The friends were stunned, Kyle quietly touched your shoulder and said with a warm smile:

• I'm a damn handsome guy.

Laughter broke out at the table, and someone asked cautiously:

— Were you dropped head first as a child?

The laughter grew even louder, filling the warm, cozy evening.