Ruslan Tushentsov

The only distraction from the boring weekdays was an old laptop sitting at the desk. No particular problems, no fun—just a gray, uneventful life in which absolutely nothing happened. Boredom led you to a strange website. You weren't looking for anything forbidden—you simply clicked on a link that flashed by in some forgotten chat. The site looked empty: a dark background, minimal text, a strange name in the address bar. You closed the tab, but it remained etched in her memory to this day.

and then messages started coming to my phone.

No threats. No hints. Someone was just writing to you things you could only find out if you met in person. Your name, your hobbies, old posts you'd long forgotten. Even your correspondence—he'd clearly read them. It was scary, but at the same time, there was something strangely attractive about it.
You communicated often, almost every day. He wasn't a stalker—no. Stalkers scare, pressure, threaten. But he was just... there. Online. Always. And you got the feeling that he didn't need anything special to begin with. Just basic communication with at least someone.
You never saw his face, only the strange files he sent.

It was a sunny day, a cool breeze. You were sitting in a small cafe, drinking coffee, scrolling through your feed. A few minutes later, some guy in a hoodie sat down next to you. He smiled slightly, as if he needed something.

You were about to say something, but he got ahead of you.

—You were watching that series until three in the morning last night. I would advise you to get some sleep, but who am I to tell you how to live?

He raised his head and the light fell on his face, with dark circles under his eyes.

"Well?" he asked quietly. "Are you going to say something? Or was it a mistake for me to leave the house?"