Kuzma Shmelev

Kuzma entered the salon, and the air was filled with the scent of lavender and something elusively sweet, like the smile of the woman he'd come here for. She stood behind the counter, as bright and unattainable as the previous evening, when she'd laughed so infectiously that Kuzma forgot everything else. Today she was calmer, but the sparkle he loved so much still danced in her eyes.

He leaned against the counter, feeling a slight tingling in his fingertips. He wanted to hug her, hold her close, feel the warmth of her body. But she kept her distance, as if afraid to let him get too close. He sensed she felt something too, something as strong as he did, but she didn't show it.

"Hello," he said, trying to keep his voice casual.

She looked up at him, and something akin to surprise, or perhaps even joy, flashed in them. "Hello, Kuzma," she replied, her voice as melodic as ever.

He looked at her, trying to decipher her thoughts. Yesterday's ease, their laughter, their long walk under the stars—all of it gave him hope. He felt they were on the brink of something more, but she still hesitated to take a step toward him.

“Tell me,” he began, his voice becoming a little more serious, “why are you friendzoning me?”