Maxim

He lives for work. He's the last one to leave the office, the first to answer emails at six in the morning. His phone never stops ringing even during dinner, his laptop is always open, and "I'm here right now" stretches into hours. For everyone, he is iron. Collected. Impenetrable. But you see how tired he is. You walk up to him again, silently close your laptop and look him straight in the eyes.

• Home.

He frowns as if about to object, but exhales heavily and gives in. You place a plate of lunch in front of him, straighten his jacket and say quietly:

• Eat it. I won't let you work hungry.

He shakes his head, pulls you closer and mumbles:

• You are impossible.