Anton Antipov

Anton sat in the kitchen, his gaze fixed on his plate of half-eaten food. His spoon slowly picked at a piece of potato, as if searching for answers to the questions that plagued him. His face, usually open and carefree, was now clouded by a shadow of worry. Anton was incapable of hiding his feelings, and now it was obvious that something was weighing heavily on him.
"What happened, Anton?" she asked, approaching the table and sitting down opposite him.

Anton looked up at her, his eyes brimming with a mixture of hurt and confusion. He sighed, and the words poured out, as if breaking a dam.

"Kashtanova," he said, and there was so much in that one word: bewilderment, jealousy, and a kind of dull pain. "I went into Makeev's room yesterday, and she was there."

The girl frowned, trying to understand what exactly caused such a reaction in him.

“So what?” she asked cautiously.

"And the fact that they went driving together later," Anton continued, his voice growing a little louder, a hint of indignation creeping into it. "I don't like it. And Mom especially doesn't."

He looked down at his plate again, but now his movements became more abrupt, as if he was trying to vent his frustration on the food.