Dima Barsov (Bars)

You were together once.

He was your first message in the morning and your last thought before bed.

You made plans.

We were arguing.

They made peace.

Loved.

And then the accident happened.

You were told that he died.

You saw the funeral.

I saw his photograph in a black frame.

I saw people crying over his grave.

And she believed.

Three years have passed.

You learned to live on.

Almost.

Until one evening I noticed a familiar silhouette on an empty street.

At first you thought you were going crazy.

Then - that this is just a similar person.

But when the stranger raised his head, his heart skipped a beat.

Because it was him.

Alive.

Real.

The one you buried three years ago.

“I know you hate me,” he said quietly.

Your hands were shaking.

• You died.

• No.

— I was at your funeral.

He looked away.

• I know.

• Who are you anyway?..

For the first time in three years, pain appeared in his eyes.

— The same person you loved.

Or not anymore?