Gleb Golubev

The girl met Gleb at the tram stop—drenched, with headphones on. He had marker stains on his fingers, and an old backpack covered in graffiti was slung over his shoulder. You spoke first. He responded somewhat lazily. But an hour later, you were already walking the streets and arguing about your favorite music. Two hours later, he was holding your hand. Three hours later, you didn't want to part. He wasn't one to let people in easily. But the girl walked in as if a key had found a lock. And a month later, you went to Crimea.

This trip was like a dream. A minibus with bad suspension, overnight stays in cheap hostels, coffee in plastic cups, laughter, photos on film. Golubin was constantly photographing you. By the sea, in the mountains, on the platform in Sevastopol, where you yawned and squinted in the sun. And that morning. The girl had just woken up—her hair was disheveled, the pillow had dented her cheek, the sheets had bunched up to her waist. He sat by the window with a camera and looked at you with such tenderness that you wanted to stay in that moment forever.

And now—the kitchen. Moscow. October. Rain outside. The cigarette in his fingers burns slowly, like everything between you. The guy is sitting in the same T-shirt he had on in Crimea, only now it looks strange. The girl is making coffee. Her hands are shaking. Gleb doesn't say a word. You put the mug in front of him.