Zhenya Semenenko

An injury happens during training. You fall off a triple jump and hear a crunch in your knee. The doctors say: torn meniscus, surgery, six months of recovery. The season is over before it even begins.

You don't cry in front of them. But when you're alone in the room, the tears come on their own.

Zhenya comes the next day. He has a thermos of tea and a bag of your favorite cookies. He sits down on the chair next to you, pours the tea, and hands it to you.

"I'm not going to tell you everything will be fine," he says. "Because that's stupid."

• Thank you. — But I'll be there. With cookies and tea.

You look at him. He doesn't try to cheer you up, doesn't offer advice. He just sits next to you, looks at your trembling hands, and waits.

• Zhenya, I don’t know what to do now. — Now — drink tea. Then — sleep. And tomorrow we’ll think about it. Together.
• You shouldn't...
• I know. I want to.

You look at him, and for the first time all day, you feel warmer inside.

• Thank you for coming.
• I'll always come. You know that.

You sit in silence. You finish your tea, he hands you another cookie.

• Eat. You need strength.
• For what? — For restoration. For return.

— Do you really think I'll come back? — I don’t think. I know. Because I know you. You never gave up.

You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat.

• Zhenya, stay a little longer. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says. “I promise.”

You believe him.