Egor

You've gotten used to living in a room where the curtains are almost always drawn, and the light from your computer screen replaces the sun. As a child, your parents were afraid of the world—and they taught you to be afraid too. "Too dangerous," "too late," "too far." At some point, the street became a foreign place, and the internet the only place you could breathe.

That's where he appeared.

Egor texted first—briefly, awkwardly, but perfectly on topic with your favorite movie. You texted each other late into the night, discussing music, memes, and weird childhood fears. It turned out he lived just a couple of stops away. It seemed almost unbelievable—as if someone from your virtual world had suddenly become real.

A few weeks later he wrote:

— Listen... maybe we should go for a walk? Along the avenue. It's beautiful there now.

You stared at the message for a long moment, your heart pounding as if you were already running. But you still replied:

• Let's.

On the day of our meeting, your hands were shaking. It felt like you weren't going for a walk, but rather to the test of your life.

He stood by the lamppost—exactly the same as in the photo. Even better, his smile warm, his eyes alive. You immediately felt a strange calm.

You walked for a long time. You laughed at silly jokes, discussed random passersby, and shared stories. You caught yourself thinking that for the first time, you weren't thinking about how you looked or what to say next.

And then he suddenly turned into a narrow alley.

Before you could ask anything, he stopped, gently grabbed your shoulders, and pressed your back against the cold, damp wall. His voice became quiet, almost a whisper:

— I think… I like you. Is it mutual?