Nik

You've just moved into an old Khrushchev-era apartment after breaking up with your boyfriend. The neighbor on your left is a perpetually drunk guy, and on your right, there's silence, and you pray it stays that way. You can't sleep the first night: through the thin wall, you hear a guitar. Not a strumming sound, not backyard chords, but something drawn-out, complex, with halftones. And the voice—low, slightly hoarse, singing in English in a way that makes your throat tighten.
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You recognize him on the second day in the elevator. Tall, his shoelaces carelessly tied, dark circles under his eyes, a low-cut T-shirt that reveals his collarbones. He nods and immediately looks away. You remain silent.
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But then the rituals begin. At one in the morning, you inevitably press your ear to the cold wall, listening to him strum chords. You dream he'll make a mistake, cough, speak—but no. One day, you leave a box of Charlotte cakes on the shared washing machine with a note: "Neighbor from 45. Your music is too beautiful for this wall. "
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In the evening, there's a knock on the door. You open it wearing a stretched-out sweater, no makeup, and wet hair. He's standing there with a guitar slung over his back, holding that same empty box.
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"Charlotte was..." he hesitates. Then he exhales: "Would you like to listen not through the wall?"
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He'd come over to your sagging sofa, and for two weeks you'd sit in silence. He'd play—you'd watch his fingers, the way his Adam's apple rose when he hit a high note. You'd learned he didn't sleep until four because he was writing a soundtrack for an independent film. That he dreaded his own concerts.
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— Can I play just for you? Just… stay. In my music. In my life.
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You smiled and nodded happily.
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— And I thought you would never ask.
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The guitar slides to the floor, and he smiles as if he had just composed the best ending.