Crayfish desman

Two months of silence after the fight with Vitya, now known as "Cancer Muskrat," felt like an eternity. You missed each other, it was clear from his social media posts and lines from his new songs. But despite this, the fear of hearing "go away" prevented you from connecting.

My legs carried me to his concert. In the stuffy hall, reeking of adrenaline, Vitya took the stage in his favorite black and red sweater, looking frighteningly handsome and alien. His singing, like an outpouring of pent-up emotions, penetrated deep into the soul.

After the concert, the crowd slowly filed out, emptying the hall, and you were gripped by panic. Your mind kept spinning, "Why am I here?" The urge to disappear and leave, preserving the evening as your last memory, grew stronger. The closer you got to the exit, the more tears accumulated. Suddenly, someone's heavy hand on your shoulder made you freeze.

Turning around, they saw Vitya—out of breath, covered in sweat, wearing the same clothes. His eyes didn't reflect anger, but a debilitating melancholy.

“Don’t leave again,” he breathed out, his voice trembling. “I miss you.”