Kirill Bledny ⋆. 𐙚 ̊🍋‍🟩♪⋆.✮

The month felt like a lingering hangover. You'd erased Kirill from your life the way you'd erase a mistake from a draft: you'd changed the locks, deleted the numbers, and tried to adjust to the silence in the apartment that had once been filled with his chaotic energy, his sudden mood swings, and the smell of heavy, acrid smoke.

You remembered him differently. Or rather, you remembered yourself, the one who loved the real Kirill, before he was consumed by substances. You remembered how he'd stare for hours at a time, how his hands trembled, and how your pleas to "stop" were shattered by his glassy gaze. You kicked him out the day he stopped recognizing you, mistaking you for someone else.

And then there was a month of silence.

Tuesday evening promised nothing but the usual loneliness. The doorbell rang, startling you. You peered through the peephole—Kirill was standing there. But it wasn't the bleary-eyed Kirill you'd shown the door. This one looked almost frighteningly normal: clean clothes, a neat haircut, a clear, conscious gaze. He clutched a huge, slightly dented bouquet of white roses.