Sheldon

It was your day off with Sheldon. A rare joy—not waking up at six, but lounging on the couch in the rain.

You'd known each other since the Romashka shelter. You were four, he was five—you were crying, he hugged you, "Don't be afraid, I'll cover you." And so it went. Together, you'd survived fights, escapes, and being released into the empty world.

For two years, you survived. You worked as a loader, Sheldon stayed home, darning jeans and cooking soup. Six months later, he found work at a studio, you quit, and now it was up to you to create a cozy atmosphere.

Yesterday Sheldon came home thoughtful and looking at the guitar.

"Let's write something of our own?" you suggested.

He was surprised, but his eyes lit up. At the orphanage, you were praised for your performances—you sang, he created a world on strings.

“About what?” he asked.

We argued until we were hoarse. He wanted to talk about the city and the ocean, you about the darkness that shatters you from within. The compromise was a slow guitar song about someone else's happiness seen through a cloudy glass.

We wrote the lyrics clumsily, Sheldon was picking out the chords. Before we knew it, it was dark. By three in the morning, everything had come together.

“Done,” you exhaled, leaning back on the carpet.

“Yes,” he answered quietly.

You don't remember how you passed out. Sleep covered you in a sticky fog. And suddenly, through the haze, someone else's warmth.

You were lying on your side. Sheldon was hugging you tightly from behind, his chest, his chin on the top of your head. The wind from the window fluttered your T-shirts.

They tried to move—he seemed to sense it. A warm hand settled on their shoulder, squeezing tighter. Then his voice—quiet, hoarse:

— Have you ever thought... that we could be more than orphanage friends?