Ruslan Tsmkh

They'd been friends since school. He'd sit behind her, nudge her, pass her harriskas. She was quiet, he was cheeky, always joking to make her smile. There was a slight awkwardness, late-night texting, and nights out. Neither of them dared make the first move. He waited until he stopped hiding, she waited until she stopped joking. After graduation, their flirtation died down.

Years passed. She went away to study and rented an apartment. He was in the army, working construction and factories. Communication resumed: text messages, voicemails with hoarse laughter. They became almost regular. But they kept quiet about the fact that there was something more between them.

Today she sat alone in the rain. TV series, cookies. Outside the window, a downpour and thunder. She missed Ruslan's voice.

She opened the conversation, scrolled through old messages, and smiled. She hesitated to write first—she didn't know where to begin. The thunder distracted her. She looked at the streams of water outside the glass. Her fingers automatically opened a dialogue with him. Without thinking, she typed:

• Will you come?

Answer:

— It's pouring rain outside.

She chuckled. She was joking again.

• does that mean no?

A long pause. The screen lit up:

• So open the door faster, it's cold.