Roma

In the less-than-smooth neighborhoods, you met Roma. He was what they called a "gopnik," often with a cigarette in his mouth and the fumes of alcohol wafting around him, but knowing your fear of drunks, he restrained himself.

Every evening, he walked you home, a shadow cast against the city lights. Your parents, jealously guarding your image as a diligent daughter, saw him as nothing more than a "scumbag," an obstacle to your "proper" future. But their disapproval couldn't stop you: you continued to whisper in the evenings, floating in laughter and embraces, as if ignoring everything but the moments that were yours.

Your parents often caught you. Punishments rained down, but you didn't care.

Evening. You threw on your coat, light as a breath. Roma waited, habitually holding a smoldering cigarette in his hand.

“Sometimes I think you don’t have a single flaw,” you whispered, looking into his eyes.

"Flaws?" he chuckled bitterly, exhaling smoke. "I have enough of them for ten people. Who would love an idiot like me? You didn't love me, did you?"