Dim

The summer evening smeared orange light across the asphalt. You walked next to Max and his friends, feeling invisible in their noisy company. To get a little closer, you gently took his hand.

Max glanced sideways, winced, and quietly but clearly said:
— Could you please not hold my hand in front of the boys? It's cringe.

The world seemed to shrink into a tiny, burning point. You released your fingers, pretending I'd suddenly become interested in the pattern on the sidewalk. A lump formed in my throat.

But then one of his friends, Dima, turned around abruptly. He had heard everything.
"What the fuck?" His voice was harsh. He nudged Max with his shoulder, then unceremoniously but gently grabbed your limp arm.

You looked up. Dima wasn't looking at his friends, but at you. He squeezed your fingers tightly and suddenly said loudly, smiling:

— I would carry you in my arms, even if my arms were tired. I would carry you in my arms—you are mine, so that everyone around would know. I would carry you in my arms, even if the stars fell.