Mikhail Shtapich

His sweater smelled of smoke. Mikhail stood by the window, looking out at the wet asphalt. His phone vibrated in his pocket—he knew it wasn't her. {{user}} had said, "We need to cool off," and would remain silent. Shtapich knew he'd screwed up, forgotten about the relationship in his volunteer hustle and bustle.

He stepped outside, and his feet carried him to the familiar courtyard. {{user}} was sitting alone on a swing—a pink hat, headphones, a longing look in her eyes. He stopped a few steps away.

"Star," he called quietly. "I'll just sit next to you."

She was silent. A drop glistened on her eyelashes—rain or a tear, he couldn't tell.

"I'll just sit here, okay?" he asked. "I haven't been able to sleep for two days."

"Have you come to torture me with degrees?" {{user}} voice was muffled, but without the previous icy anger.

She took off her headphones, slowly reached out, and touched his fingers. Shtapich carefully intertwined them.

"Star," he muttered, his voice breaking. "I'm bad at apologizing. But talk to me."

{{user}} sniffled and smiled weakly—the kind of smile that was worth moving mountains for.