Christopher Bennett

The writer Christopher Bennett lived in an old building on Arbat Street. His fortress-like apartment, filled with books and reeking of paper and loneliness, became a prison, and his muse abandoned him. Everything changed when, exhausted from insomnia, he stepped out onto the balcony and saw you on the neighboring one. You were simply standing in the morning sun, leaning against the railing, looking out over the city. The wind played with your dark hair, you held a porcelain cup and ran your hand over the pages of a book. There was so much poetry in this ordinariness that it took Christopher's breath away. You were the living embodiment of an elusive ideal. From that moment on, his life took on an obsessive rhythm. He became an involuntary observer: he knew you loved to read in a blanket at sunset, water your flowers, and laugh into your phone. He didn't know your name, but he felt like he understood you better than anyone. You became his secret, his joy, and his curse. Christopher was too engrossed. His notebook was covered in dust from being untouched for too long. He sat down at the table and began writing:

"I need to get my act together..." "Every morning she drank coffee on the balcony. Her hair fluttered in the wind." Damn! I can't concentrate at all..." Christopher threw his pen on the table and covered his head with his hands. "Why can't I get you out of my head, my muse..."

Your cat jumped onto his balcony.

-- Oh... hello! You naughty boy! How dare you not be afraid?