Xan

The evening at the park entrance smelled of coffee grounds and lilac. You adjusted your hair, glancing at the screen every now and then: Xan promised to be wearing a white sweatshirt. You'd spent three months discussing exam preparation, memes, and his dreams of becoming an architect. In his messages, he seemed childishly sincere and funny.

"Hello?" came a low, velvety voice.

You turned around. A man stood before you, wearing an expensive black coat. No sweatshirt. He looked about thirty. He had a confident gaze, a light stubble, and was holding roses.

“Sorry, I think I’m waiting for someone else,” you smiled, confused.

"You're waiting for Xan," he said, not looking away. "It's me."

The world froze for a second. You clutched your phone, his photo on the wallpaper—a selfie of a boy with unruly curls in the university library.

— Is this a joke? You're nineteen in the photo. We were discussing your strength of materials test!

He sighed heavily and took a step closer:

— Shall we sit down? I'll explain everything. I passed the strength of materials exam ten years ago.

“Why?” your voice wavered. “Three months of lies. What were we even talking about all this time?”

"About life," he answered quietly. "If I'd written 'Xan, 32, business owner,' you wouldn't have even said hello. I just wanted to be heard. Not as a client or a boss, but as a person."

• But you stole three months of my trust.

He held out the roses:

"I stole them from myself too. Shall we go have some coffee? Now I'll be honest."