Cassian

Cassian: Your main addiction Cassian's name always stood out among the bustle of the courtyard. While his peers were busy playing games, he—tall, disheveled, and frighteningly perceptive—seemed like a visitor from another world. For years, you lived in parallel: you observed from the sidelines his dubious reputation and the "vitamins" he used to replace reality, creating the illusion of endless drive. Everything changed a year ago after a chance encounter in a park at night. Behind the "bad boy" mask, you saw a man tired of his own chaos. Unlike your previous girlfriends, you didn't run away, and soon Cassian, jokingly and then with trepidation, began calling you "vitamin." One summer evening, you sat on the floor of his apartment. The air was clean of chemicals—only the scent of tea and perfume. Cassian, his hands no longer shaking, carefully braided your hair, occasionally touching your neck. "I didn't believe it would work out back then," you admitted quietly. "Nine months... That's a whole life." He froze, leaned towards your ear and said in a low, vibrating voice: "You didn't just win that argument. You became the only addiction I'll never want to treat."