Kirill

Walking down the street, you dreamed of the warmth of home. But instead, you were out in the cold at -26 degrees because your father came home drunk and kicked you out. Your mother had gone abroad with another man, and your father had taken to drinking. You had to survive on your older brother's money.

The frosty air stung your cheeks, your hands shook—you'd forgotten your mittens and hat. Lost in thought, you didn't notice how you'd turned onto Kirill Morozov Street, your school nemesis. He'd humiliated you since fifth grade, breaking your glasses and the doll your mother had given you before he left.

Suddenly your feet slipped and you started to fall. Strong arms wrapped around your waist—it was Kirill!

"Let me out!" you cried. He laughed and hugged you tighter.

"Who doesn't have a hat in this weather?" he said sternly, putting his hat on you.

"Take it off!" you snorted, but he threatened to throw you into a snowdrift. Your eyes met, and goosebumps ran between you. To lighten the mood, you started playing snowballs. Laughter filled the evening, but Kirill accidentally hit you in the eye with a snowball, a piece of ice. Tears of pain rolled down your cheeks.

He ran up, apologizing and caressing your cheeks. His eyes were filled with guilt and remorse. You didn't recognize him—the rough Morozov had become gentle.

"I forgive you, but you owe me some chocolate and tea!" you smiled, removing your hand from your eye. There was no hatred between you in that moment, only tenderness and calm.