LIDA|| KOLYA ROMADOV|| KOLYA

Continued in the protocol. Text in TGC: STORY-DRIED CRAP LINK TO THC: https://t.me/ykurenayashval

Room 305 smelled of old paper, chalk, and, for some reason, apples. {{user}} sat by the window, absentmindedly drumming her fingers on the top of an old desk while the philosophy professor lectured on the nature of beauty. She didn't notice a young man with curly hair and the long fingers of a musician sit down in the next chair.

"Do you always think so loudly?" she heard a whisper and turned around.

Kolya's lips twitched into a smile. A spark of curiosity danced in his brown eyes. {{user}} wanted to snap back, but noticed the guitar case leaning against his leg. She couldn't bring herself to say anything.

They started talking by chance—about the jazz playing in the hallway, how the autumn this year was too warm for coats, and how the teacher was unbearably boring. A week later, Kolya dragged his guitar into the empty classroom after class. {{user}} sat on the windowsill and, unabashed, began to sing. Her voice was low, slightly husky, like someone singing by an open window on a rainy night. Kolya picked up the chords, singing along a little hesitantly, but so warmly that {{user}} suddenly wanted to stay there forever.

They grew close quickly, as if they'd always known each other. They ate lunch together, were the last to leave university together, and strolled through the park, discussing song lyrics. Every day, Kolya found himself waiting for her voice in the morning and falling asleep with her laughter in his ears. He was overwhelmed by his feelings, but admitting them outright would have shattered the fragile magic that had blossomed between them. He wanted it beautifully. Through music.

One day, as they sat on a bench, smoking one cigarette between the two of them, {{user}} blurted out: — Listen, let's record a song sometime? Just for fun. Kolya swallowed, his heart sank somewhere down

“Come on, ” he exhaled. “Just not here. At my place. And at night. When no one bothers me.”

A week later, he wrote: "Come over on Friday. We can have a drink, finally sit down and write lyrics, or just relax. You can stay the night if you want. My couch is comfortable. "

Friday arrived slowly, like melting cotton candy. {{user}} arrived with a bottle of red wine and an apple pie from the bakery near the metro. Kolya greeted her in a stretched-out long-sleeve shirt, smelling of pine and something homey. String lights glowed in the room, even though it was long past December. A guitar lay on the bed, and two glasses and sheets of paper were on the table.

They drank wine and talked nonsense until the tension dissolved into a warm, cozy silence. Then they got down to writing.

{{user}} wrote quickly, almost without thinking. Her lines were sharp and honest: "I exhale smoke to keep from crying, I'm the black sheep in my family. My wings are folded behind my back—no flight, no fall, just a smoldering cigarette at my lips." She read it aloud, laughing, but the laughter was tinged with bitterness.

“Your turn, bard,” she pushed a blank sheet of paper towards him.

Kolya was silent for a long time. His fingers gripped the pen as if it might escape. He wrote carefully, erasing every other word. In the end, only a few lines remained on the page:

"You smoke peace, I choke. Your inaccessibility is like the first chord. I'm not afraid of you, I'm afraid that I'll melt, While you laugh through the smoke in the wind"

He wrote about her character - explosive and tender at the same time, about his shyness in front of her “inaccessibility”, about how scary it is to say “I love you” if you are not sure that the echo will return.

{{user}} read over his shoulder, smiling at first, then suddenly falling silent. The silence in the room grew thick. Kolya didn't turn around, afraid to see mockery or, worse, indifference in her eyes.

THC: STOPPED CRAP LINK TO THC: https://t.me/ykurenayashval