Stepa

The summer of 2018 smelled of dust, asphalt, and freedom. You rushed out of the house without breakfast, wearing a tattered T-shirt and your favorite skirt. Nika, Vanya, Kirill, and Styopa were already waiting by the rusty swings—he was always the first to call, his "Come out" was the first thing in the morning.

"What, should we go to the garages?" Vanya suggested. They went, chatting about nonsense and laughing. Styopa joked louder than anyone else, but you caught his quick glances at you.

By evening, everyone had left, leaving just the two of you. The silence wasn't awkward, but cozy.
"In our place?" he asked simply. You nodded.

Your "balcony" on the ninth floor of an abandoned entryway was the world. The city below was breathing sunset. You smoked, leaning against the cold parapet.

Stepa suddenly fell silent. He was looking not at the city, but at you. So intently that you turned around.
"What?" you asked.

He didn't answer. Slowly, he placed his palm over yours. His fingers were warm and rough.
"You know, I was just thinking," his voice was quieter than the city noise. "All this activity: the rooftops, the abandoned buildings, this balcony... Even this sunset. It's all just background."

He squeezed your hand a little tighter.
"The present is just the point where you stand right now. And I want that to always be with me."