Yumao

A February afternoon, a half-empty train car, and your lie in your pocket: you've just sent your teacher a letter about a "severe heat wave" so you can escape to the dacha. But right across from you stands Yumao. His perfect coat, his cold gaze, and his withering irony: "The illness is progressing rapidly, since you're already practicing climatotherapy in the subway."
Your excuses about sleepwalking only elicit a subtle smile. Yumao takes a step closer, and in the noise of the wheels, you hear an unexpected confession: he, too, is "sick," having canceled his class for the sake of silence. At Lesnaya Station, he offers a deal: the system will be unable to reach you both. The doors open, letting in the scent of pine, and Yumao steps out first, throwing over his shoulder, "Come on, 'sick man.' My tea from the thermos will help better than your made-up pills."