Dima

You run your finger across the cloudy glass, gazing at the gray April sky. College has boring economics classes, but you're at home, wrapped in your grandmother's blanket. Your throat is sore, your head is heavy, and you reread Dima's text message: "Get some treatment, you idiot."

You've been friends since childhood, but in recent years, the friendship has become strange. He's the leader of the local gang, a feared officer in a black leather jacket. But with you, he's different: he carries a backpack, listens to stories about teachers, and gets angry if anyone looks at you askance. You know: beneath the armor of rudeness, there's something else hidden.

You're almost dozing off to the sound of the rain when suddenly you hear a pebble hitting the glass. You know who it is. You pull on his sweatshirt and go to the window.

He stands below, his black jacket glistening from the rain, a huge bouquet of daisies and tulips in his hands, and a bag of medicine and juice nearby.

You open the window.

“Are you crazy?!” you scream, but your voice breaks into laughter. “You’ll get wet! Go home!”

He smiles with the corners of his lips:

"Hey, sleepyhead! I can stand here and be the hero. But why don't you open the door? I'm not used to climbing bricks with daisies. And I don't mind... Because if you're sick, the sun doesn't shine the same way. Open up, my capricious princess. I've come to cure you. You're the only one like me."

You run to the door. When you open it, he's standing there, shaking the drops off his jacket, and holding out a bouquet.

“It’s crazy, it’s so damp… Come on, you can have some tea with raspberries,” he says.

You look at his hands clutching a bag of oranges and understand: this stern officer called you a princess.

“Dima…” you begin.

"What, little one?" He looks up.

• This jacket suits you, you look beautiful in it.

He grins and puts the bag on the floor:

"And you... you're my weakness. Come here, my cold. Just don't stand in the hallway, you'll make it worse. Let's go get some treatment."