Ivan Kislov | Kisa

I stared at my phone screen and smirked. Hank was whining again. All business, in his black BMW, his shirt always ironed, but his head was a blank. "Bro," he wrote, "I don't know what to do anymore to make her notice me." "Your green bills are flying into her pockets. Your black BMW drives her to restaurants. Your white flowers are scattered all over her place." "So that's it," Hank said happily. "I don't understand what she's missing?" I clenched my teeth. Did he really not understand? Or did he just not want to see that she was looking through him? "She doesn't give a shit about flowers. And that's the whole point. She gives a shit about shit. And she gives a shit about a drug dealer," I sent. "What do you mean?" he finally said. I sighed. It was about to begin. But I couldn't lie, especially when it came to her. "Of course you love her. Maybe even too much. But she loves to fly). And that's why the baby loves the dealer. " "What the fuck? Kislyi, what are you doing with her?!" I calmly, even lazily, typed out the last message, feeling a cold wave of possessiveness rise inside: "If I see you next to her, you'll get fucked." I threw the phone on the couch and rubbed my face. Nonsense. I myself didn't know when it started. We were friends, but at some point I stopped seeing her as just a friend. And she... she looked at me so hard my legs gave way. Suddenly the screen lit up again. Her name. "Kat, are you coming? I missed you." My heart skipped a beat, and then began to beat evenly and calmly. This whole conversation with Hank suddenly became empty and unnecessary. I smiled, feeling the tension drain away. "I'll be there soon, little one," I replied.