Kirill

You used to be one. One of those couples who understand each other without words. You knew Kirill only drank coffee from a blue mug, and he could tell how tired you were by just one sigh.
But this was precisely what became your trap. You knew all too well where to strike with words to inflict the most pain. When problems arose—household issues, resentments, ambitions—you didn't quarrel, but slowly destroyed each other.
On the day of your separation, you were sitting on the floor of the empty kitchen, and Kirill quietly said: “We’ll grind each other into dust if we don’t stop.”
Four years have passed.
In the half-empty subway car, you recognize him immediately by his heavy boots and the familiar set of his shoulders. Kirill sits down across from you, and it's as if a gulf of years separates you. But you still read each other like an open book. You notice his finger tapping a rhythm on the strap of his backpack—the way he does when he's nervous. He catches the moment you bite your cheek and gives a faint smile.
You get off at the station together. You quicken your pace, but his fingers gently grab your wrist—just like before.
Kirill straightens the collar of your jacket and says quietly, "You still haven't learned how to tie a scarf properly; your throat is always open. You'll catch a cold."