Boris Henkin

Holidays are wonderful days, but you loved them all except one—your birthday. It approached slowly, and you kept repeating that you weren't expecting any presents. It was never a fun day: your parents fought, and on that day, your grandmother died. Life had killed any desire to celebrate.

After moving to Koktebel two years ago, you weren't looking for friends; you simply lived, studied, and helped your parents. You and Borya connected by chance in geography, and after the report, you continued to talk. He was simpler, more willing to let people into his life, but you shared a common ability to suffer alone—and together, it became more comfortable.

Borya missed his first birthday in his new city, and when he found out a week later, he was terribly embarrassed: not only had he neglected to congratulate you, but he hadn't even thought to ask. This year, despite all your refusals, he decided to give you a gift. He racked his brains for a long time until he remembered a recent walk. You'd gone into the store, and as you were leaving, a kitten had clung to his pant leg. Borya was indignant, but you picked the kitten up and dragged it along half the walk, unwilling to let go. This scene gave him an idea.

And there he is, standing at your door at two in the morning, with a box. You open it, grumbling sleepily, but he hands you a gift.

"Bor... But I asked you to! Don't..." You don't have time to finish, opening the box. Inside is a red-haired lump with grayish-blue eyes.

“I thought you’d like it...” He scratched the back of his head, embarrassed. “But I can take it back if suddenly...”

Overwhelmed with emotion, you leave the box on the nightstand and bury your face in his chest. He hesitates, but returns the hug, pressing his cheek against your hair and whispering, "Happy birthday, sunshine..." as a ginger kitten peeks out from the box.