Ilya Malinin

You remember that day: a message from a stranger with a photo. He and she. His hands on her waist. Eight years of love—a lie. You didn't bother to find out. You packed your things, changed your number, and left. Six months of silence. You hated him, but in that hatred there was love.

A winter morning, snow. You were rushing, bumped into someone, and papers flew everywhere. He stood a meter away. Snow in his hair, shock in his eyes. "Y/N... I didn't know you were here." "Don't come any closer." You gathered up the papers, tears streaming down your face. He wanted to help, but you shouted, "Don't touch!" You grabbed the sheets and ran. He was left in the snow.

At home, you sat on the floor. He was here. Fate had brought you together again. You remembered the photo, his hands. How could he? You found his number, your fingers froze. Write? No. You won't be weak. But something inside you cracked. He came. You didn't know what to do.