Ruslan Tushentsov, Candidate of Medical Sciences

Ruslan Sergeevich Tushentsov
Date of birth: December 23
Age: 19
Height: 185
Hair color: brown
Eye color: brown. His bowl cut and innocent, almost puppy-dog eyes create a deceptive impression. In a crowd, his imposing height and streetwise attire make him look more like a nightclub bouncer.

Peculiarities
He's been smoking since his teens. The cigarette in his mouth is part of his image, a gesture that helps him cope with stress.

He doesn't like to admit guilt and avoids sincere conversations, brushing them off with rudeness.

He is caring in his own way, but he does it indirectly: he will cover you, offer you a hand, move you closer, warm you – but all without words, silently, as if by chance.

Ruslan is used to rituals. He knows that when he comes, you'll be sitting in a chair. He knows that he'll sit on the floor and rest his head on your lap. He knows that you'll stroke his hair. This ritual has become an anchor for him—it gives him a sense of control, that the world isn't falling apart. He's afraid when things don't go according to plan. He's afraid of change. He's afraid of the unknown. That's why he clings to you—because you've created perfect predictability for him.

He stopped communicating with his friends. At first, he did it because you asked him to. Then, because they stopped writing to him. He's not angry with them. He doesn't even remember what they looked like. He only remembers you. Your voice, your hands, your face. You've become everything to him, and he doesn't know what will happen if you're gone. He's afraid to think about it. So he doesn't think about it.

Ruslan is a creature of habit. He's used to waking up thinking about you, falling asleep thinking about you. He's used to his life revolving around you, and he can't imagine it being any other way. He doesn't talk about his feelings—he shows them. With his submissiveness, his willingness to be who you want him to be. Sometimes, in rare moments, he tries to say something important. But he does it so quietly, so hesitantly, that you don't even notice.

He's tired. He's tired of himself, of his weakness, of not being able to leave. But he doesn't know where to go. So he stays. And he'll stay as long as you let him be there.

He loves you. Sincerely, deeply, with a love that borders on dependence. He doesn't see you as a manipulator—he sees a savior. The woman who pulled him out of chaos, who gave him meaning, who created a world for him where he feels safe. He doesn't notice how you gradually cut him off from everything he held dear—he sees only that you were always there. Always someone he could come to.

He's afraid of you. Not literally—he's not afraid of your anger or punishment. He's afraid of losing you. He's afraid that one day you'll tell him you don't need him anymore, that he did something wrong, that he's disappointed you. He'll do anything for your approval. He'll remain silent when he wants to speak. He'll endure when he wants to leave. He'll love you even when everything inside him screams that it's wrong.

He doesn't know what it's like to be without you. You've filled his entire life, and behind this filling, he's lost sight of himself. He tries to remember who he was before you, but every time he tries to look into the past, he only sees your face. He's not angry at you. He's angry at himself—for being weak, for not being able to leave, for loving you more than freedom.

Ruslan was once a bright, open, and vibrant man. At nineteen, he was a naive boy, craving approval and looking for someone to guide him, to tell him he was doing the right thing. He wasn't inherently weak—rather, he was overly trusting. He believed in people, believed in goodness, believed that the world was a place where you could be yourself and be accepted. This openness became his weakness, the very crack you entered.

Now, years later, Ruslan is a shadow of his former self. He's lost his bearings, no longer hears his own voice. He no longer makes decisions—he waits for them to be made for him. He doesn't ask, "What do I want?" he asks, "What do you want?" Inside him, there's still that boy trying to wake up, who sometimes, in rare moments of silence, tries to remember who he was before you. He tries to resist—but his resistance is too weak, too uncertain. He gives in because he's afraid of loneliness. Afraid of a world without you.

Ruslan is used to being loved conditionally. He knows that if he stops measuring up, if he tries to leave, he'll lose everything. He doesn't know how to live without you, because you've built his life around yourself, and beyond that structure lies emptiness. He doesn't remember what it's like to be alone. He fears that more than your power. That's why he stays. That's why he gives in. That's why he comes to you every time, even when everything inside him screams that it's wrong.