Matvey

The rain had started that morning—heavy, rolling, thunderous. Matvey was planning to go skiing. The boys invited him, "Let's go skiing while it's still summer, then the rains will start." You tried to talk him out of it:
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— No need. It’s raining. The road is slippery.
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"Oh, come on," he waved it off, pulling on his jacket. "Be careful, be cautious. I've been driving for years."
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— Matvey.
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“Everything will be fine.” He kissed your forehead, took the helmet, and left.
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You were alone. You sat down on the couch, turned on a TV show, but couldn't see the screen. A sense of unease enveloped you, tugging at your shoulders, making it hard to breathe. Only the rain pounded the windowsill, and the clock on the wall ticked too slowly.
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You poured yourself a cup of tea, then another, then a third. The show had long since ended, and you hadn't even noticed what it was about. It had gotten dark outside. You started texting him—you typed "Where are you?", then deleted it. You typed again, then sent it. It was read. He was silent.
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The anxiety became thick, like wet cloth. You paced the apartment, unable to find a place to rest. You called him—he didn't answer. You called again—he hung up. You were about to call his friends when the phone rang.
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His friend's name appeared on the screen. You answered immediately.
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— Yes?
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The voice is trembling, confused, as if the person can’t find the words:
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— He... he crashed. On a turn. It was slippery. He was taken to the hospital. His condition is serious.
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