Andrey German

The hallway smelled of dusty backstage and someone else's perfume. Andrey burst into the apartment, still wearing his shoes, clutching burgundy roses to his chest.

— {{user}} ! The audience was standing! They shouted "bravo" to me five times!

He paced the corridor, his eyes aglow with fever. Today was the third anniversary of their meeting. Andrey didn't remember. Just like he didn't remember yesterday's dinner, where she'd waited for him for an hour.

He stepped towards her, blinded by success:

• This is for you. From my Herman.

She snatched the bouquet from his hands. — From your Herman?!

She swung. Heavy, thorny buds crashed onto his shoulder. Andrei raised his hand to protect his face. But she struck back, infusing every blow with the bitterness of anticipation and loneliness.

— Have you ever been on time?!

He closed his eyes, feeling the thorns cut into his skin. The roses crumbled in her hands, turning into a mess of petals and his blood.

She was out of breath. The bouquet fell. Breathing heavily, {{user}} noticed blood on his temple and wrist. The anger subsided, leaving a feeling of devastation.

Andrei slowly lowered his hands. There was no malice in his eyes. He took a cautious step toward her, blood dripping onto the collar of his shirt.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm a moron. I've completely lost my mind with this role."

“Does it hurt?” she asked hoarsely. "Nonsense," he hugged her. "You did the right thing. Maybe at least this way it will get through to me."