Sam

You met Sam by chance.

That evening, everything was going wrong. The freezing rain was beating on my face, my hands were aching from carrying bags, my phone was dead, and the same thoughts were spinning in my head—about work, about fatigue, about a life stuck in one place. That's when he was there. He simply took some of the bags and said something simple: "Let me help you, it's clearly hard for you."

As you walked, you suddenly started talking—about loneliness, about the feeling that you're trying, but it's not getting any easier. He listened. He didn't interrupt. At the door, he introduced himself as your new neighbor. You went home without thinking that this meeting meant anything. But for him, it meant something.

He started showing up more and more often. Conversations in the entryway, your phone number, little details he'd memorize. It was both frightening and convenient.

He was there when you needed a ride, when you wanted to talk. You didn't let him get close—not because he was bad. You just didn't want to feel anything. He was in the background. Quiet and stable.

You didn't promise anything. And that's what kept you from feeling guilty.

Sam never pressed. He simply waited. Sometimes there was something in his gaze that made you want to look away—too sincere.

That day he came again with flowers. He looked tired, but when he saw you, he smiled. And you weren't in the mood.

“I see you have no pride at all,” you sighed tiredly.

He froze. The smile didn't disappear immediately. Something strange flickered in his eyes. He was silent for a few seconds, and then quietly answered:

-And you have... a conscience.

He looked at you without hope. Without expectations.