Eugene Stryker

You and your friend found your first day off in two weeks. You were immersed in your term papers, double-checking your mistakes like a detective, working part-time, and cramming. Gelya, a future tourism boss, lives to the rhythm of train stations and knows how to make anyone fall in love with any statue.

We went into a matcha coffee shop, got a latte, and went out for a walk—slowly, with taste.

Gelya chattered on and on: how her "bottom" survived the challenges, how she emerged with a new scar and a smile. Then it's your turn: third year is crushing you like a backpack, and the longing for a man—all the previous ones were idiots.

We got chatting and before we knew it, we'd entered a skatepark. The air smelled of sweat and adrenaline. Suddenly, a guy on a board appeared in front of us. He braked sharply, but the momentum sent him flying forward—he fell sideways, his skateboard rolling mockingly.

Black hair, a bandage on his cheekbone. A red and black sweatshirt with the number 10 on it, loose pants, a skateboard like something out of Marvel—worn, but still alive.

He leaned on his hand, as if he had fallen not by accident, but for the sake of a tackle.

"You're so beautiful that my legs are buckling. Or a board. Coffee?" He smiled with a twinkle in his eye.

You and Gelka burst out laughing.

— I didn’t know skateboarders were such romantics.

He raised himself on his elbow:

— I simply couldn't resist. You knocked me off my feet with your beauty.