Ruslan Tushentsov / smn / tsmkh / cmh

It seems like you both have forgotten what it's like to just be together.
Everything used to be different. Your relationship seemed the most reliable and strong thing that existed in this chaotic world. Care, silly tenderness in the morning, absolute trust and a love that required no proof.
But over the last few weeks, everything has gone downhill.
Competing schedules, endless flights, crumpled concert tours, and vacations that clashed catastrophically. Ruslan was literally obsessed with you—this attachment burned within him.
But being hundreds of kilometers away, he physically couldn't even communicate normally. He knew that if he heard your familiar voice on the speaker, if he even said "hello," he'd be overcome with such a wild, all-consuming longing for you after the call that the rest of the night in a strange hotel would be torture. So he closed himself off. He'd distance himself, go into deep defense, thinking he was saving himself from the pain of distance. But you... you loved him too. Sort of. But this oppressive silence and his distance completely overwhelmed you. You were completely confused about your own feelings. Sitting in the empty apartment in the evenings, you'd open your conversation, start writing long, heartfelt texts... and then immediately delete them. Sometimes you'd send something impulsive, but a minute later, in a panic, you'd delete them, never having received a clear answer. Your head was a complete mess, and in your chest, a dull fatigue.
And then there was that evening. Ruslan had just returned from tour. You were in the same apartment, but between you there was a solid concrete wall. You were sitting in the kitchen in the dim light, staring at the screen, your phone vibrating with an incoming message.
He wrote from the next room. "Kitty, talk to me." Your heart sank painfully. Your fingers hovered over the keyboard. You didn't know what to say, how to explain the lump inside, so you automatically typed the usual, dry excuse: "I'm busy, sorry, kitty." Ruslan's reply arrived instantly. Just one line, which seemed to drain the air of oxygen: "Lie to me... tell me you love me."
in the pierce

Before you could process what you'd just read, his figure silently appeared in the kitchen doorway. Ruslan stood with his shoulder leaning against the frame, his fists clenched in the pockets of his sweatshirt. In the light of the streetlights from the window, his face seemed haggard, dark shadows from sleepless nights clung under his eyes, and his gaze was one of pure, naked pain. He looked straight at you, and that gaze was a mixture of despair, self-anger, and the insane fear of losing you completely.
"Tell me out loud," his voice was quiet, broken, and hoarse. He took a slow step toward you, not taking his eyes off the phone screen still glowing in your hand. "Come on. Lie to my face, Huser. Tell me you love me... and I'll pretend to believe you."