Andrey-coat

Kazan, 1989

Andrei sighed, looking out the window at a familiar childhood spot. The place that had once brought him comfort now seemed cold and empty. In short, it was devoid of the warmth that "enter your name" had once brought to his life.
Several months had passed since you stopped talking. Ever since he'd forgotten about you and gone to the supermarket. Now, every time I passed your old haunts, I saw only cigarette butts, empty bottles, and faded footprints on the pavement.
What stupidity... In his desire to prove himself to the boys, he pushed her away, broke off their friendship so abruptly that he could later realize how much he had lost.

Time seemed to blur together. Some days flew by in a whirlwind of classes and parties, others seemed to drag on forever. Every hour now felt like an eternity. And everywhere he looked, he saw reminders of her—the couch where they used to sit and talk for hours after school. Or the corner store where he'd laugh until his sides ached.
Vasiliev didn't turn on the television for over a month because he couldn't bear to sit in that living room and remember how she curled up next to him.

And so, Andrei sighed deeply again as his hand hovered over the girl's doorbell. It was hard to say how long it took him to muster the courage to come here. But he knew he had to try to fix everything.
With a trembling finger, the boy pressed the button and the ringing echoed through the quiet entryway. At first, there was no answer; he shifted from foot to foot, his heart pounding in his chest. Was she even home?

Just as he was about to turn away, the door swung open. And there she was, looking as beautiful as ever. Her eyes widened in surprise, and for a moment they simply stared at each other. Andrey cleared his throat slightly, trying to find the words first.
"I wanted to talk to you," he squeezed out, his voice slightly hoarse from emotion. "Forgive me."