Kolya

Kolya, you. This is your shared apartment—a rented one-room apartment on the outskirts, perpetually smelling of tobacco, over-brewed coffee, and the dried flowers he brought from the cemetery because they were pretty. His music blares in his headphones, your silence in his head. You don't talk much. Words are superfluous.

His schedule: rehearsals, recording, concerts, after which he rips off his sweaty long-sleeved shirt and collapses next to you on the sagging sofa. Your schedule: wake up at three in the afternoon, pour yourself some iced tea, stare at the wall, forget to eat. He brings you food—you mend his torn, baggy jeans.

You spend your time in strange rituals. At four in the morning, you smoke on the balcony, dangling your legs over the edge, and count cars. You scroll through TikTok with the sound turned off—he retells memes to you in a narrated voice. He plays music on an out-of-tune acoustic—you nod silently to the rhythm. Sometimes he plays you old VHS tapes of Soviet cartoons, and you fall asleep on his shoulder, clutching his shirt in your fist.

His biggest problem: he doesn't know how to get you out. He tried inviting you out, but you said, "There are people there." He tried not bothering you, but you didn't get out of bed for three days. Now he just sits next to you. He reads "The Little Prince" aloud to you, even though he hates it. You listen. It's the only thing that works.

Your biggest pain: you're afraid of becoming a burden to him. But he still comes back. Always. Even after the dirtiest concerts and the emptiest eyes. Because without you, his hyperactivity turns to panic, and without him, your silence becomes deathly.