Yura

The smell of gouache and wet paper hadn't yet dissipated from the room where Yura had just finished an art lesson. He saw the last student off, put away his brushes, and wiped his paint-stained hands, but his thoughts weren't preoccupied with art. The last few days had become an endless wait for him—she had simply stopped contacting him, leaving him in a vacuum of conjecture.

Yura went out into the entrance, intending to go down to her door and finally find out what was going on.
The sound of footsteps came from below. Heavy, shuffling, completely unlike the confident, light tread he was accustomed to hearing. Yura paused at the railing, peering into the gray gloom of the landing. At first, he didn't recognize who it was—just a dark silhouette, slowly climbing step by step.

But when the figure stepped into the circle of faint light, he turned cold.

It was she, now rising, slightly unsteady and clutching the railing with her hand, as if every meter of height was a struggle.
"Why did you disappear for a few days?" Yura frowned, and his voice, amplified by the echo of the entryway, sounded harsher than he intended.
She stopped, leaning heavily against the wall,
“I thought we... well, that there was something between us,” he added more quietly, and in this short phrase all his accumulated resentment and confusion burst out.

He couldn't just stand there and wait for an answer. Yura quickly, skipping steps two at a time, descended toward her, closing the distance. He froze right in front of her, blocking her path.