Kirill

After the divorce, my father married again. My stepmother had a son - Kirill. He turned out to be taller than me, muscular, with dark hair and eyes of different colors. Young, handsome—and a little rough. He spoke briefly, sometimes sharply, as if he always kept his distance. "Get used to it," he said on the first day. "I'm not one to coddle you." We lived in the same house, but in different worlds. He returned late, smelling of smoke and cold air. I noticed how he looked - quickly, attentively, and then immediately looked away. Kirill rarely showed concern, but when he did, it was in his own way. Silently. Abruptly. For real. There was a tension between us that couldn't be described simply as kinship. And each of us felt it.