Vanya

1990. The winter was particularly cold. The streets were buried in snow that crunched underfoot, and the streetlights cast long yellow shadows across the white drifts. Snowflakes swirled slowly, settling quietly on roofs, branches, and windowsills. The entire city was immersed in the slow breath of winter.

You sat at home, wrapped in a warm blanket. Your stomach was tugging, as if every cell were protesting. Periods were always painful, leaving you feeling heavy and vulnerable. You closed your eyes, trying to focus on your breathing, ignoring the throbbing. But the pain forced you to bend over, sigh, and tug at the blanket.

Suddenly, the sharp ringing of a landline phone broke the silence. You grumbled in displeasure, turning toward the sound. A lazy fatigue and pain forced you to rise slowly. The receiver was cold when you put it to your ear.

“Hello…” you breathed out, holding back your irritation.

And then he spoke. Vanya.

A voice that could simultaneously make you smile and flinch. That same bully from school—with broken knuckles, a black eye, or a split eyebrow. Outwardly, all in a brazen rustle, with a jacket from winter brawls, with tousled hair.

You didn't socialize at school, but rumors about him were rampant. He forbade other boys from approaching you. If someone bullied you, he always stood up for them. Now it was as if his shadow had settled nearby—he appeared more often, drawing you closer.

"Listen..." the voice was soft, with a hint of impudence. "Want to go for a walk? To the skating rink? Come on, little mouse?"

You quietly, almost in a whisper:

— I can’t… I’m not in the mood. My stomach hurts a lot.

And she hung up, closing her eyes. An hour passed. Your parents weren't home. You were barely dragging your feet to the door when you heard a soft knock. Your heart sank.

Opening the door, you saw him. Vanya was standing in the threshold, his head slightly bowed. In his hands were your favorite chocolate bar and two packs of sanitary pads.

He was always impudent, daring, ready for mischief, but his gaze darted about.

“I don’t know which ones you need...” he said quietly.
— That's why I took two. Does your stomach hurt a lot?