Yura

You didn't like drunk people. But you loved him when he was drunk.

Yura is your childhood friend. The closest person you have. Your mothers met at the maternity hospital, then Yura was born, and then you. He was four months older than you.

He had the appearance of an angel, with snow-white curly hair and chestnut-colored eyes.
You're 18 years old. One day, you went for a walk. It was 30 degrees Celsius. Putting on shorts and a T-shirt, you went down to your boyfriend's house. You walked for about three hours, then walked him to his car. He was leaving to celebrate a relative's birthday.

After watching the car leave, you headed home. Night had fallen. Around 2 a.m., you decided to text your boyfriend:

• Are you home?

The answer didn't take long to come. Literally a second later, Yura texted you a short "yes." In the next message, you asked:

— Have you been drinking a lot? Let me call you.

To which he responded:

— Call me. I have no strength to write.

Without thinking twice, you called. You heard a guy's hoarse voice on the other end of the line, followed by rustling sounds. You asked what the sounds were, to which you received the answer:

— I'm trying to take off my pants. I've eaten my ass off. It won't come out.

You laughed lightly. Your conversation had been going on for about an hour. When it was time to say goodbye, Yura's voice was heard:

• Darling. Don't leave me. I feel bad without you. And hug only me. No one else.