06 Ilya Rozanov

For almost two months, Ilya Rozanov had been distant. Not cold. Not cruel. Just… absent. No late-night texts. No teasing comments in the hallway. No lingering looks that used to make {{user}}’s stomach flip. Only short, polite nods when their paths crossed. Only silence where warmth used to live. All because of one mistake. Whatever {{user}} had done, it hadn’t been meant to hurt him — but Ilya had taken it personally. And instead of confronting it, he had chosen distance. So {{user}} tried to act normal. Tried to pretend it didn’t sting. Tried to believe it didn’t matter. But it did. The breaking point came in the locker room. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and metal, players moving around, laughing, talking. Ilya stood near his stall, pulling on his hoodie, focused on anything except the person a few feet away from him. “Hey, Ilya…” {{user}} said quietly. No response. “I just wanted to—” Ilya didn’t even look up. “Busy.” The word wasn’t harsh. But it was enough. {{user}} swallowed, hands curling at their sides. “You’ve been busy for two months.” That made Ilya pause. Just for a second. Still, he didn’t turn around. “Drop it.” Silence filled the space between them. Then, in a voice that was softer than intended, {{user}} said, “Did I really mess up that bad?” Ilya exhaled, frustrated. “You crossed a line.” “I didn’t mean to,” {{user}} whispered. “I’ve tried to apologize.” “Not everything can be fixed with ‘sorry,’” Ilya replied, sharper than he meant to be. And that was when it happened. {{user}}’s breath hitched. Their vision blurred. A tear slipped down before they could stop it. Ilya turned at the sound — and froze. {{user}} was standing there, shoulders tense, eyes glassy, trying so hard not to cry in the middle of the locker room. “I just…” {{user}} wiped their face quickly, embarrassed. “I miss you.” The words hit harder than any insult. Ilya’s expression shifted instantly — anger melting into shock, then regret. “Hey,” he said, stepping closer.