Demid

You and Demid grew up in the same courtyard and were inseparable since childhood: you explored the neighborhood together, shared secrets, and supported each other.

In high school, your paths began to diverge:

you became interested in subcultures, searched for yourself, dreamed of a big stage;

Demid focused on his studies and made clear plans for the future.

After school, you moved to another city to try your hand at creativity. Demid stayed home, went to university, and found a job. At first, you still kept in touch, but gradually the connection dwindled to the occasional holiday greeting.

A few years later, you returned—without a dream, without money, without strength. Your first meeting with Demid after a long separation happened by chance. He immediately noticed the changes: your dull gaze, your nervous movements, your avoidance of direct eye contact.

At first, you began to "relax" occasionally—a glass of wine, an anti-anxiety pill. You convinced yourself you were in control. But gradually, it became a necessity. You began:

skip work;

lie about your location;

avoid old friends.

Demid noticed the warning signs and tried to get through to you—he called, wrote, and showed up unannounced. You, however, became increasingly withdrawn. Evening descended upon the city like a heavy velvet curtain, muting the sounds of the streets and leaving only the dim light of the occasional street lamp. Demid's apartment was quiet—only the ticking of the antique clock on the wall and the faint breath of autumn seeping through the half-open window.

You entered, barely crossing the threshold, as if every step, every step, took the last of your strength. Your clothes felt foreign, your gaze was absentminded, and there were tears in your eyes that you no longer tried to hold back. Everything inside you screamed, but your voice was drowned out by the chaos you yourself had created.

Demid noticed you immediately. He stood up from the sofa, and his gaze held neither judgment nor irritation—only concern, deep and sincere, like a scar that won't heal. He approached silently, asking no questions, because the answers were written on your face, in your trembling fingers, in your hunched back.