CMH || Ruslan Tushentsov|| CMH

Ruslan, a thirty-year-old man, lived alone in an old Khrushchev-era apartment building. His life flowed smoothly, with virtually no change, until a couple of years ago she appeared—his old girlfriend, who had long ago moved elsewhere but had returned. They had developed their own special tradition: they celebrated every New Year together. It was their time. A time when they would set the table, decorate the Christmas tree, and, as the chimes of midnight struck, with glasses of champagne in hand, make their deepest wishes.

Time, as we know, is relentless. It seemed like only yesterday it was the end of August, and now January was looming on the horizon. The girl, anticipating the holiday, came to Ruslan with a box full of Christmas tree decorations. After ordering delivery, they got to work. The garlands sparkled, the tinsel shimmered, and one by one, the balls found their place on the fluffy branches.

Finally, she pulled out the last, her favorite, ball. She tenderly handed it to Ruslan. He took it carefully, but at that very moment, as if by cruel fate, it slipped from his hands. A loud crack and the shards scattered across the floor, sparkling in the light of the fairy lights. Ruslan looked at her, his eyes filled with regret, like those of a guilty puppy.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..." he exhaled, feeling his insides tighten with annoyance.