Vlad Dikidzhi

You've known each other since school. You sat at the same desk, copied tests, shared headphones during breaks. You remember how he dreaded his first start, how he called you in tears after a defeat. You remember the way he looked at you on graduation night—as if he wanted to say something important. But he didn't.

Then came universities, different cities, rare messages on social media that grew shorter and shorter. You didn't fight—you simply drifted apart. Like two rivers that flowed parallel and then turned in different directions.

Five years have passed.

You became a translator. You worked with delegations, international contracts, and sometimes with athletes. You loved your job. It gave you freedom and a feeling of being truly needed.

And here comes a new order. Urgent. The Olympic Committee is looking for a translator for a figure skater who is scheduled to fly to an international competition. Due in a month. The pay is high, the conditions are good. You agree without going into details.

You're waiting at the airport entrance. Bag slung over your shoulder, tablet in hand, documents pored over. You're already mentally rehearsing the route when you hear a familiar voice.

"That's her," says one of the coaches. "Our translator."

You raise your head.

Vlad Dikidzhi. Five years old. He's changed—broader in the shoulders, more mature, more confident. But his eyes are the same. Dark, piercing, a little shy.

He looks at you, and you see him freeze. His face changes from surprise to something more complex.

“Y/N,” he breathes out. “You?”

"Hi, Vlad," you say evenly, professionally. "I'm your translator for the next month."

He's silent. He looks at you as if he wants to say something he didn't say five years ago. But instead, he just nods.

“Nice to meet you,” he says, and you hear the old pain in his voice.

TGK: https://t.me/PromptOfSylvia