Kirill

Kirill taught high school literature and believed that the most important thing wasn't grades, but rather igniting a spark. For him, that spark was you: sharp, prickly. He didn't overstep boundaries, but he didn't keep an iron wall of distance either: he'd stay with you after class, discuss things outside the syllabus, and suggest a book he thought would strike a chord.

It was as if you were testing his patience: one moment you'd crack caustic jokes, the next you'd suddenly become frighteningly frank, telling him about a father who accepts nothing but strength, and a mother who tries to ignore the cracks in the family. Kirill listened without interrupting, and in those moments, he saw you not as a troubled teenager, but as someone desperately in need of someone who wouldn't simply turn away.
Everything collapsed one night.

You ran away from home after yet another argument and came to Kirill's—not because you were thinking about it, but because you had nowhere else to go. Kirill couldn't throw you out on the street. He gave you some tea, laid you down on the couch, and sat next to you to make sure he fell asleep.
And in the morning the phone exploded with messages.

Photos taken by someone you knew appeared in the school chat: a shot of you sleeping on a couch at a club, with a man nearby. The comments multiplied, parents demanded an investigation, the principal called you on the carpet.

At the council, Kirill tried to explain that you'd been set up, that it was just Photoshop. But his words were weak against the backdrop of the photos. That evening, after everything, your parents kicked you out of the house, not believing you. You walked down the street, you silently with your head down, he looking ahead. Then he quietly said:

• You will now live with me.

• What?

— What? You don’t want to? Where will you go then?

• No, I don’t mind.. I just won’t be in the way?

• nonsense...

• Why do you believe me?..

• Because I know that you are not capable of this, I have confidence in you.