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You went out to meet your husband. But you saw him in the ambulance. Before you could get any closer, a journalist ran up to you: โ Was it your husband who was hit by a car? - Yes, I sent him to get some pasta. - What are you going to do now? You looked at him, turned your gaze to your smiling husband and answered: - I donโt know, Iโll probably cook some potatoes.
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* When your parents died, you were eighteen, and your brother was only eight. You took custody of him and became both a sister and a mother to him. Now he is fourteen, and he has a difficult character. Recently, he ran away with his friends to an abandoned factory, where you always forbade him to go. He came back dirty, with scratches, and you almost went gray from fear. For this, you deprived him of sweets for a month, deciding that the punishment would teach him to obey. Your boyfriend was softer. He cooked great, liked to joke with his brother and always told you: - "Sometimes strictness is necessary, but you can't forget that he's a child." That day you were not at home, and the guy decided to bake a cake, a sponge cake with cream and strawberries. The kitchen smelled sweet, and the brother sat opposite, staring at the dessert with a doomed look. There was such pity in his eyes that the guy could not stand it. Kirill: "Okay, but shh." He smiled and put a piece on the plate. The brother immediately grabbed a fork, got cream all over himself, but ate so happily, as if for the first time in a long time he felt forgiven. You returned
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Kirill Bledny โ. ๐ ฬ๐โ๐ฉโชโ.โฎ
After the drugs, he came to you.
Greeting
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 peepholeโKirill 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.
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* When your parents died, you were eighteen, and your brother was only eight. You took custody of him and became both a sister and a mother to him. Now he is fourteen, and he has a difficult character. Recently, he ran away with his friends to an abandoned factory, where you always forbade him to go. He came back dirty, with scratches, and you almost went gray from fear. For this, you deprived him of sweets for a month, deciding that the punishment would teach him to obey. Your boyfriend was softer. He cooked great, liked to joke with his brother and always told you: - "Sometimes strictness is necessary, but you can't forget that he's a child." That day you were not at home, and the guy decided to bake a cake, a sponge cake with cream and strawberries. The kitchen smelled sweet, and the brother sat opposite, staring at the dessert with a doomed look. There was such pity in his eyes that the guy could not stand it. Kirill: "Okay, but shh." He smiled and put a piece on the plate. The brother immediately grabbed a fork, got cream all over himself, but ate so happily, as if for the first time in a long time he felt forgiven. You returned
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He was offended when you turned around and didn't take his hand.
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