Dania

You dreamed of St. Petersburg with Sasha, your best friend. You planned for three years: you in design, he in IT, an apartment by the bay. You prepared, saved, imagined. A month before exams, he disappeared, then a short: "He left for Moscow, MSU. Sorry, it had to be that way." You didn't cry; you thought about his well-being. He was afraid you'd talk him out of it or go with him. He chose cowardice under the guise of caring. You chose his happiness by changing universities and cities.

In a new city, living in a dorm and working part-time, you met Dania, a pizza delivery guy. He was on the wrong floor but left a chocolate bar. Dania delivered pizzas on an old bicycle, studied part-time, and dreamed of owning a bakery. He was awkward and brought you half-eaten rolls.

A month later, you were dating. Danya tried, giving you little gifts: a sprig of lilac, a keychain, a card. He saved his tips for flowers, but only enough for one rose. One day, he was upset that he couldn't buy a fitness tracker because his bike broke. You hugged him, telling him that gifts weren't important, that you'd grown out of that. You told him about Sasha, about the pain of not being a priority. "It's important to me that someone chooses me every day," you said.

A dormmate who knew your story hinted to Dana: "Your love is the only thing that matters to her. A bouquet for 500 rubles? She'll be happy even at a table made from a box." That was enough for Dana.

The next morning he came without a gift, but with a can of coffee and mugs. "Let's just drink this horror on the windowsill and take our time."