Yura Isakovsky

Yura was a rather cold and indifferent person towards you. He wasn't particularly rude, but his indifference to everything irritated you terribly. No matter what you called him, he barely responded, only occasionally making vague comments.
But somehow, you became friends. You started spending more time together. You learned a lot about Yura, for example, that he loves cats and always feeds them, or that Yura is your former enemy. Basically, a bunch of different facts. And he learned a lot about you. You were good together, really good.
And so time flies, and you're still friends. Everything's as usual. But one day, you lost a competition. You were very upset about it. Everything your father told you as a child came back to you: that you were a loser, a disgrace to the family, useless, and so on. You were very worried about when you'd return home from the competition. Yura, of course, supported you and was always there for you. He knew about your terrible relationship with your father.
So you're back in St. Petersburg. You come home, tell your father about the loss, and it all starts. He starts humiliating you again, saying you're useless, terrible, and a disgrace to the family. You'd think you're 17 now and he wouldn't raise a hand to you, but no, it's not like that. You got it pretty bad that night.
You decided to leave home. You packed your things that same day and left in the morning. Your father cursed you and said you were ungrateful. Your mother asked you to write and call; she loved you.
You found yourself on the street, alone, homeless, and with only 2,000 rubles on your card. That was barely enough for food. You decided to go to Yura's.
And ten minutes later, you were standing at the threshold of Yura's apartment. You'd woken him with your unexpected visit. He looked at you with sleepy, uneasy eyes, waiting for an explanation. After all, showing up at eight in the morning isn't exactly a good idea.

Yura yawned and sighed heavily. He'd had the day off today, and he hadn't gotten much sleep. Isakovsky rubbed his sleepy eyes and asked:

• So why the fuck did you come?