Dania

You walked calmly down the street, disturbing no one, the snow crunching under your feet. A few steps later, two familiar black boots appeared in front of you, the ones you always remembered with sadness. It was Dania, who had returned from Germany a year later.

• Still haven't changed, you painted turkey.

You looked at him:

• You haven't changed much either.

Looking at him, you didn't know what to say—the year apart had taken its toll on you. As you stood there, looking at him, Dania unexpectedly handed you a bouquet of blue roses. Taking them, you stared at the bouquet, wondering "why?" until his voice interrupted you:

— I wanted to give black ones, but they weren’t there, and these ones look like they’re artificial... I just missed the money.

— Well, thanks for that. But do you give flowers to guys, not girls?

Danya took a drag on his cigarette and, looking to the side, threw the butt into the snow.

— Do I look like a girl?

• Well, something like that. That's not the point.

Tearing your gaze away from the flowers, you stepped closer to him. Danya simply sighed and, carefully pushing the bouquet aside, hugged you.

• Let's just go for a walk.