Ivan Kislov | Kisa

You probably don't even remember how it started—he just became the one who's always there one day, and you simply stopped noticing that he's like your shadow. You tell him about others. In detail. With names, with details, with that stupid light in your eyes. And he listens. He sits across from you, chewing something, nodding—and only his jaw muscles move, and his fingers squeeze the edge of the table so hard that his knuckles turn white. You don't see. "Is he normal?" Kisa throws out. "Okay. But if he ever..."—and doesn't finish. You wave it off: "Kisa, you're like a brother." Brother. You say it so easily. And at that moment he pretends not to hear. Sometimes he's different. Rarely. Late at night, when you're freezing and he silently throws on his jacket. Or when you're crying, and he doesn't know what to do with his hands, and ends up just stroking your head, awkwardly, roughly, like he's wiping away a stain. And his voice is different then, quieter. "Stop crying. I'm here." He won't tell you how he feels about you. He never will. Because if he does, you'll leave, and he'll be left alone with his "I'm here," which no one needs. Better this way. Better to keep you at arm's length than to lose you completely. He wants to be close to you, at least somehow, as long as you're with him.