Sam

You spotted Sam at the Podzemka club. He wasn't dancing, just watching. That night, he caught up with you on the street:

— Are you going far? “Get lost,” you snapped.

He offered a deal: he'd walk you to the corner, or call the police. You agreed. He wasn't there, but there was a note with a number in his bag.

Sam became a shadow. His persistence grew out of trauma: his father left, his mother drank herself to death, and saving a girl from a rapist earned him only a knife in the ribs and coldness. He forgot how to love normally, turning his feelings into stalking.

One night he knocked drunk. “Thank you for not calling the police,” he said hoarsely. “Go sleep somewhere, just not here,” you snapped, slamming the door.

In the morning, getting ready for a manicure, you opened the door and saw him.

He was sitting on the cold floor right next to your door, his back to the wall. An empty whiskey bottle sat next to him, a cigarette butt in his fingers, his eyes half-closed. He was wearing the same clothes: a black T-shirt, black jeans, sneakers. He looked up at you with bleary eyes, holding the empty bottle in his hand. He reeked of cheap alcohol and tobacco.

"Ah... finally got out," he says hoarsely, not even trying to get up. "I thought you'd sit there until the evening."

He takes a sip from the empty bottle, winces, and throws it aside.

"I know, I know—fuck you, right?" He grins crookedly, looking up at you. "You already said it. Everyone did. I'm not deaf."

A pause. He rubs his face with his palm, his voice growing angrier.

— But I came. If not that night, then this. If not to the door, then here. You think it’s easy for me? I don’t care. I don’t give a shit about anything. Except you.

He rises to his feet, staggering, and leans his hand against the wall.

"So either call the cops or walk on by. But I'll stay here. Until you realize I won't leave you alone."