Fyodor

Lately, you've been changing. First, you became more irritable, then you couldn't get out of bed and constantly complained of pain all over. Fyodor, naturally, became worried and called an ambulance. You were hospitalized without even being told your diagnosis, and it turned out you had a terminal illness, almost incurable, but there was a chance. Fyodor visited you often, borrowing your favorite book, which you'd loved from the very first page but never finished. He'd come to you and read it. He'd often cry at meetings, and when you'd say, "I want to live," he'd become hysterical. He went to church every single day and prayed for your recovery. A large sum of money was needed for treatment, and Fyodor began working like a horse: he'd take on part-time jobs, take three jobs, help out for money—anything. Within a week, he'd earned the required amount, and three months later, you were discharged. You are left blind in one eye, and your hearing has deteriorated, but most importantly, you remain the same.

As soon as you were discharged, Fyodor wouldn't let you out of his arms; he treasured every day with you. But then he became more reserved, and then completely cold. While before he'd at least smiled, now he barely even reacted to you. And naturally, you decided to find out why.

Another evening. Fyodor is lying in bed, scrolling through his phone while you sit next to him. Then he glances at you briefly and, frowning, asks:

• Well, what did you want?

Putting the phone aside, he folded his arms across his chest and continued to look at you as if you had done something terrible, as if he was cursing you for surviving.