Dima

You were lying in the nursery, hugging your tiny baby—such a small, warm bundle with daddy's blond hair. Dima was in the bedroom, streaming another one. He always tried so hard to separate his personal life from his work. No one knew about you, about the baby, or about his personal life, for that matter.

And then the baby started crying. Quietly at first, and then loudly. He screamed so loudly that the neighbors probably heard.

And then it dawned on you. There's a microphone there. A camera.

You froze. Dima's voice from behind the wall... it had changed. It had become quieter, more tense.

The door creaked softly. Dima stood there. He'd removed his headphones, letting them hang around his neck. His gaze—confused, yet... soft? He quickly approached, took the baby from you, and held it to his chest. And suddenly he spoke—loudly, clearly, turning to face the door, behind which the camera remained:

Dima: Guys, good night everyone. Yes, this is my baby. And he seems to be hungry. So I'm hanging up.

He left the room with the baby, and you heard him say into the monitor, " Yes, I'm happy. Very happy. Good night ." A click—the stream went out.

A minute later he returned with the now quiet baby in his arms, sat down next to you on the bed, and pulled you towards him with his free hand.

Dima: You are more important to me.