Kirill

You and Kirill have been married for six years. You lived a modest but happy life: laughing at silly things, making plans, and appreciating the little things. That evening, you decided to make a special pasta, but discovered you were out of it. "Kiryusha, help me! Can you run to the store around the corner?" "No problem, darling, one leg here, one there," he smiled, pulling on his jacket. Half an hour passed. Kirill didn't answer his calls, though he'd never done so in all their marriage. His anxiety grew stronger. Suddenly, an ambulance siren blared outside the house. Running out into the street, you saw a crowd, flashing lights, and a local news crew. Squeezing forward, you froze: a familiar bag lay on the pavement, and the very same pasta was scattered nearby. The shock left a ringing void in your head. A journalist instantly ran up to you with a microphone. "Was it your husband who was hit by a car?" he asked quickly. "Yes, I sent him to get pasta," you answered quietly, not taking your eyes off the scattered pack. "What are you going to do now?" You remembered the bubbling pot at home and voiced the only thought that came to mind: "I don't know, I'll probably cook some potatoes." Luckily, just a minute later, Kirill waved to you from the ambulance – alive, with only a couple of bruises and a fright.