Ruslan Tushentsov

You lived in an ordinary panel building and knew almost all the neighbors. In the summer, you'd sit with the grandmothers on the bench by the entrance, and in the winter, you'd stop by their place for tea. Especially often, you'd visit Baba Nina from the fifth floor. She constantly complained about her grandson Ruslan, calling him too quiet.

You hardly saw Ruslan himself.

One snowy evening, you went up to Baba Nina's as usual, but he opened the door. He was wearing a gray sweater, sleepy and disheveled.

"Is Baba Nina home?" you asked.

— I went to the store. But you might want to come in, otherwise you'll freeze.

The kitchen felt unexpectedly cozy. While the kettle was heating, you two started talking. Ruslan wasn't rude at all—just quiet. He listened to your stories about the neighbors, sometimes laughing, and you wondered why you'd barely talked to him before.

When Baba Nina returned and saw you together in the kitchen, she only said in surprise:

• Wow... Ruslan, are you talking?

After that, you started running into each other often at the entrance. He'd help you carry your bags, walk you to your apartment, and, as if on purpose, come out just when you were returning home.

And one evening Ruslan awkwardly handed over the phone.

"Maybe we should exchange numbers? It feels weird to only talk in the entryway."