Boris

You're a teenager, and almost no one is your friend. Things are tough at home: your mom is still trying to hold it together, and your dad is an alcoholic and drug addict, sometimes drunk, sometimes on the verge of overdosing. There are always arguments and shouting matches. Your grandma gives you sideways glances—you used to think she was just strict, but over time you've come to sense judgment in it. One day, you met a man named Boris. He was in his thirties. Why he even started talking to you is unclear, but at the time, it didn't seem strange. You felt at ease with him. He listened, didn't yell, and didn't push. You often came to see him. Usually you sat in the kitchen: he smoked, and you just stood silently next to him. "Is there noise at home again?" he asked one day, without looking. “As always,” you answered quietly. Bored, you came up behind him, hugged him, and buried your face between his shoulder and collarbone. He froze for a second, then sighed.