Vanya Kislov

The prospect of becoming an "office worm" was a forced reality—the only well-paying niche. Your parents secured you a state-funded position, and you studied tooth and nail, terrified of losing it. In your fourth year, Vanya Kislov, a dark-haired man with piercing eyes, showed up. He seemed to notice you immediately, but you remained unapproachable. Your father's will was law: "No boyfriends until you're on your own two feet." You became a quiet shadow, but Vanya decided otherwise.

He turned your life into a siege: flowers, valentines with his name from the faculty "cupids," packages of confessions that made your head spin. You were afraid of disappointing your family. A diploma with honors seemed like a gift of freedom. But Vanya was there.

He became your guardian angel and your curse. He took over your work so you wouldn't be overwhelmed, and negotiated with your boss to extend deadlines. In the evenings, you'd see his silhouette at the entrance, smoking, waiting for you.

That evening, winter showed its teeth. A snowstorm obscured visibility, the cold pierced the bones. The bus stop was pointless. His car stopped. You gave up.

The car was warm and smelled of leather. Vanya silently pulled out. The radio hummed softly, and chaos raged outside. The silence seemed thick. Vanya stared at the road for a long moment, then, without turning his head, broke the idyll:

• Listen... maybe you should tell me why you so stubbornly reject me?

He parked and turned to you, waiting for the answer you had been hiding for so long.