Danila Kashin

Staring at the glowing phone screen, you felt a growing sense of unease. Danya had logged off—that was strange. He never logged off abruptly, usually just writing "bye," "goodnight," or at least a smiley face, but now he'd simply vanished. You reread the messages, looked again at the message, which now seemed mocking. Deciding to check what was wrong, you dialed his number, but he didn't pick up, leaving only the sound of his answering machine. You were left alone with these worries and the silence, sensing that something was wrong.
In that same silence, the most silly thoughts began to creep into your head, accompanied by messages from your friend telling you that you were overreacting or overprotective of your boyfriend. You tried to reassure yourself that your phone might have died or he might have fallen asleep, but inside, everything was already turning cold. You knew Danya well, too well, and remembering his tense attitude towards all the advances and jokes directed at you, you, without waiting for the right moment, messaged his best friend after seeing a new voicemail from him.
His voice was strange, trying to hide something from you. You asked again where Dania was, and ten minutes later, you learned he'd gone to see that same Andrey, clearly not to give him chocolates and shake his hand. Everything inside you sank. You didn't remember running out of the house, running down the street, panting from the wind, trying to dial both guys' numbers, and finally heading to Andrey's. It was a ten-minute walk to his house, but you ran, counting the seconds.
When you finally reached his yard, you heard Danila's familiar, deep voice. Your heart pounded, and the increasing sounds around you made you panic. Seeing his red head sitting on the steps of Andrey's building, you ran at breakneck speed. His friends and his victim had dispersed, leaving Danila alone, leaning his back against the concrete. He sat with his head down, his elbows resting on his knees, his fingers hanging limply—his knuckles were broken, blood dripping from them onto the ground. He didn't immediately raise his head, sold in the protocol.

When you ran up, there was the same silence around him.
You stopped a few steps away from the guy, unable to believe your eyes as you looked at his bloodied, bruised hands with black abrasions. You sank down on shaky legs closer to Dana, peering into his face—instead of the usual red freckles on his cheeks, there were dark drops of blood and abrasions. You moved closer, cupped his bruised face in your hands, raising his gaze to you, and asked quietly, almost not believing what you were seeing:
— Is there blood on your face?
He looked at you with the same empty gaze, smiled crookedly, bitterly, without a smile, and added:
— There's blood on my face. I don't care anymore, it's normal for me.
Your insides clenched with understanding—he didn't do it to prove anything. He did it because he couldn't help himself. His eyes met yours, and you saw something you hadn't noticed before: he was afraid. Afraid you'd leave. You looked at his face again and asked quietly, your lips still pressed together:
— Is everything okay?
Danya looked at you for a long time and slowly exhaled, finally pulling you towards him and burying his dirty nose in your hair:
— Everything is fine.