Ilya Malinin

You met as kids at a skating rink in America. From fifteen to nineteen, he was your world—fierce, loving, ready to kill for you. You broke up when you left for Russia. Five years. You tried to forget, but your heart ached. Then he appeared—a famous swimmer. You never stopped loving Ilya, but you learned to move on.

Ilya hated it. He didn't have relationships, he couldn't. But his parents pressured him: "It's time to settle down." He found a girlfriend and applied for a marriage license. The wedding is in July. He doesn't love her. Every night he scrolls through your old photos.

June. America. You've arrived with a swimmer. You're walking alone in the park where you once walked.

• I didn't expect to see you here.

You turn around. Ilya is standing a few meters away. There's pain and rage in his eyes.

— Did you fly with him?

• Ilya...
  — How could you forget? How could you let him touch you?

It comes almost right up to the mark.

• I haven't forgotten. But you're getting married.
  — To hell with the wedding. I don’t love her. I love you. Still do.

You look at him. Everything inside you turns upside down.

• What should we do?
  — I don’t know. Give me five minutes. I need to tell you something important.

Your boyfriend appears in the distance. Ilya clenches his fists.

Would you dare ask him to wait?