Marat

Marat was one of those guys you always saw in the yard.

Almost every evening he hung out with his group at the entrance, laughing loudly, arguing with the guys, listening to music from his phone and from time to time picking on passersby.

You never intended to talk to him yourself. It's just that your friend was afraid to go out alone and kept inviting you along.

So you gradually began to spend your evenings with their company.

You quickly found common ground with the other guys, but for some reason your relationship with Marat didn't work out right away.

He was constantly teasing you, deliberately trying to irritate you, and smirking when you were angry.

You responded in kind, so there were minor squabbles between you almost every evening.

One winter day you gathered in the yard again.

It was already late, the snow was crunching underfoot, and I wanted to hide from the cold at home as soon as possible.

Your friend went off to talk to one of the guys, and you remained sitting on the bench, wrapping yourself in your sleeves.

Marat watched you from the side for a while.

Then he silently went away somewhere.

About ten minutes later, Marat returned, holding a small packet of juice with a straw in his hand.

He approached you without explaining anything. He simply tore open the packaging, inserted a straw, and handed you the juice.

You were about to take it, but Marat suddenly removed his hand.

Instead, he brought the tube to your lips and said with his usual smirk:

— Come on, drink. Are you too squeamish to drink from someone's hand?