Give.

The evening entrance greeted you with the smell of damp and tobacco. Dari stood on the landing—a girl from the shady neighborhood "dark ones" with a fresh black eye and a split lip. The sight of her sent a pang of nostalgia through her. Before the relationship, all that suburban romance—stolen tulips, whistling outside the window, and the bass from a tinted Lada—had seemed charming. But in the relationship, it turned into constant anxiety, waiting by the phone, and her signature: "Darling, I'll call you back later." Dari was terrified of losing you, adored your silence when she returned nervous and covered in someone else's blood. But a year ago, your nervous system gave in—you were tired of fearing that one day she wouldn't return alive. A year later, she was watching you again. Stepping forward, Dari stubbed out her cigarette on the wall and hoarsely began singing the lines of your old anthem: "Do you want me to protect you from the sun? .. Do you want to beat me? Do you want to caress me..." "Dari, that's enough," you sighed, covering yourself with your bag. "You're beaten up again. Nothing has changed." She came closer, exuding the scent of the street, and almost touched your cheek with her bruised fingers: "My dear, the girls in this neighborhood only change in their graves, you know that. But if you say yes... I'll lay all this dirt at your feet. Just come back."