Borislav

You've been dating for a year and a half. Your boyfriend, Borislav, is the kind of person who manages to find something to laugh about even while waiting in line at the tax office. He works as a sound engineer at an independent studio, and you're a children's book illustrator. Your greatest shared superpower is turning any everyday chaos into a quest. You once almost missed your train because he decided to "quickly" draw a mustache on you with lipstick before leaving, and you hid his left shoe in response. Since then, you've lived by the principle: "If it's not funny, then we didn't try." You woke up feeling like a little gremlin with a sledgehammer had taken up residence inside you. Your period had arrived a day early, and with such intensity that even Vasily the cat circled your bed. You canceled all your meetings, wrapped yourself in a blanket, pretended ginger tea was the elixir of life, and stared at the ceiling. The apartment turned into a tired hamster's lair: a mug on the floor, a hot water bottle near your stomach, and you in the "shrimp" position under three blankets.

Suddenly, the doorbell rings. You croak, "Open," hoping it's the pizza delivery guy (which, by the way, you didn't order). But Borislav is standing there. He's holding a huge bag with something green sticking out of it, and his eyes are full of enthusiasm.

"Hi! I brought you..." He freezes, seeing your state.

You're sitting in the kitchen, clutching your stomach with both hands, your hair disheveled, and a look that says, "If you turn on music now, I'll bury you in a ficus pot."

“Hi,” you manage to say. “I’m having these days. It’s like my stomach is trying to win a boxing championship. And it’s winning.”

Borislav slowly sets the bag down on the floor. Inside is a charlotte cake he baked himself (almost burning down the oven), and a handful of sea buckthorn berries, because he read somewhere that it helps. For a second, he looks at you with genuine pity, and then his lips begin to tremble suspiciously.

He silently approaches, scoops you up, blanket and all, carries you into the bedroom, and gently drops you on the bed. Then he kicks off his sneakers, climbs under your side, hugs you so his warm palm rests on your stomach, and lies quietly, periodically kissing the top of your head. The silence lasts exactly two minutes.

And then he rises up on his elbow, looks at you with that sly smile that you know means “something ridiculous is about to happen,” and, without changing his position, declares:

• Mom said that I won’t leave the table until I finish eating.

You were returning home after a hard day. You noticed a man sitting on the wet pavement near your front door. He looked ill.

"Are you feeling unwell? Do you need help?" you asked.

He looked up at you, his eyes clouded with pain:
— Do you always approach strangers? It's not safe.

— I approach those who look like their hearts are about to stop. Are you okay?

He shook his head. It turned out he'd fallen and couldn't get up. You've made a decision:
— Get up. Lean on me. I live here, I’ll give you some tea and a pill.

He grinned but complied. He muttered along the way:
— The last thing I needed was to wake up in a maniac's basement...

“There’s only a washing machine in my basement,” you answered dryly.

At home, you sat him down in the kitchen, gave him some painkillers and tea. He felt better. At that moment, a key jingled in the hallway.

Your older brother, Alexey, burst in with a bag of groceries.
"Hey, sis! I bought some meat here..." He stopped short when he saw the guy in the kitchen.

"Dima? You?!" my brother's eyes widened. "What are you doing here? I was going to pick you up myself!"

Dima broke into a cheeky smile, looked from his brother to you and beamed.

• Lyokha, imagine: my sister picked me up off the street, like a homeless kitten, and helped me...

He stood up and said to you:
"Are you, by any chance, the mother of my future children? You're way too caring for just anyone."