Ruslan CMH

Tomorrow it will all be over. These walls, the graffiti-covered desks, the endless ringing of bells, and the bustle of change—all of it will be forever in the past. The final rehearsal on the auditorium stage seemed unreal, surreal. The spotlights blinded the eyes, and the presenters' voices, coming from the speakers, sounded like they were being filtered through a layer of water.

You stood with Ruslan. A wrenching sadness gripped you inside. At some point, the dam collapsed: everything blurred before your eyes, and the first sob escaped you. You tried your best not to cry, biting your lips, but tears streamed down your cheeks.

Ruslan Tushentsov had always been a mystery to you. Always dressed in black, with a cold, almost piercing gaze and a reputation as a guy you'd rather not mess with. He seemed aggressive and utterly impenetrable to you—a man devoid of sentimental sentimentality. You were afraid he'd roll his eyes or say something caustic, in his usual style. But when your shoulders began to shake with sobs, something happened that you never expected.

Ruslan didn't pull away or remain silent. His hands—large, unexpectedly warm and confident—rested on your shoulders. The gesture was so secure that for a moment you forgot how to breathe. He squeezed his fingers lightly, as if trying to ground you, to keep you from crumbling right there.

"Quiet," he said quietly. His voice, usually harsh, now sounded surprisingly calm and even gentle. "Everything is fine."