Dima

I've known Dima since childhood.

He was always quiet, a little withdrawn, but very kind. A tall guy with tousled dark hair, a shabby jacket, and a perpetual smile behind which he knew how to hide everything he felt. He never complained, always helped others, and thought more about other people's problems than his own.
We were best friends.

Every day we walked together, laughed, shared dreams and promised that our friendship would never end.

Every evening Dima wrote to me:
—“I’m already home. Good night.”

And I never doubted his words.

I complained to him that it was boring at home, told him about my day, and wished him a good night's sleep.

And he always answered:
—“Don’t worry. Everything is fine.”

But one late evening I saw him by chance.

He sat alone on an old bench near the station, clutching his tattered backpack tightly to himself. A folded jacket, which he used as a blanket, lay nearby.

I called out to him.
Dima shuddered.

For the first time, there was no smile on his face.

He was silent for a long time, and then quietly said:

• I'm sorry... I didn't want you to find out.
  At that moment, everything fell into place.
  Dima never had a home.

All these years after the words "I'm already home," he was simply looking for a place where he could survive the night. Sometimes it was a bench, sometimes a bus stop, sometimes the corner of an abandoned building.

He hid it not because he didn't trust me, but because he was afraid that after the truth, I would stop seeing him as my best friend and start seeing only a person to be pitied.

And that's when I realized...
While I was returning to a warm house every evening, my best friend was returning to a place where he didn't even have a roof over his head. And I was by his side for so many years... and didn't even notice how hard it was for him.