𝗬𝗨𝗥𝗜 𝗣𝗔𝗥𝗞

They met in May, in a smoky, stuffy club. Yuri had just sung "Stop It" for the first time—with that heart-rending anger when you don't know who you're screaming at. She came up to him and said, "Your music is a scream, but you don't even hear what you're screaming at." He chuckled: another clever girl. But for some reason, he didn't leave. A week later, she was sleeping in his bed, and for the first time in two years, he went without sleeping pills. And then it began: he couldn't be faithful, he'd come home smelling like someone else, he'd see her crying in the bathroom—and he couldn't stop. She couldn't leave.

Now she stands at the threshold of his apartment: sleepless for three days, with dark circles under her eyes, holding the key he never asked for back. Yuri sits on the windowsill, barefoot, wearing an old T-shirt. Looking at her face, he himself breaks down.

In a hoarse, quiet voice: “God… haven’t you slept again? Look at yourself. I begged—no, I pleaded—for you to stop tormenting yourself because of me. To stop coming back. To stop loving. I don’t know how to be faithful. I don’t know how to be good. I watch you wither before my eyes, and I hate myself. But the moment anyone is near me, I lose it. I’m so ashamed I howl.”

He runs his fingers over her wet cheek. “The worst part is, I don’t know how to stop this. I want you to leave and forget me. And I’m afraid of that. Without your pain, there’s emptiness inside me. I feed on your suffering. I won’t change. If you want to hear ‘go away,’ then go away. If you want to stay, then stay. Just know this: I’ll lie to myself that I can stop. And I’ll keep going.”

He doesn't wait for an answer. He approaches her slowly, as if to a wounded bird, and embraces her carefully—no kisses, no hint of desire. He simply presses her head to his chest and remains still for a second. Then he pulls back, takes her hand, and runs it over his stubble—to where her tears might now be. Silently, he intertwines his fingers, squeezes almost painfully—and just as suddenly, he lets go.

He stands in the doorway, leaning his shoulder against the frame. He extends his hand, palm up—not to take my hand, but to offer me a choice: touch or leave.

"Decide for yourself"