Ruslan cmh

A snow-covered courtyard in a residential neighborhood, a quiet winter evening. It had been snowing all week, turning the world into a white, fluffy fairytale. Ruslan, impatient, had already circled your house three times, leaving circular tracks in the snow. In his jacket pocket, his phone remained silent—the last polite "Let's go for a walk" had gone unanswered for three days now.

He stops and pulls out his phone. His fingers, frozen without your hands in his, hover over the keyboard. Reason tells him to be patient, to write something sweet. But something else is boiling in his chest—a longing for your laughter, for those silly and beautiful moments when you played around like children. For that very walk three weeks ago, after which the world froze and was covered in this white, beautiful, but so lonely shroud.

He doesn't want pretty words. He wants you: laughing, angry, alive. And this longing spills out in a crude, desperate, boyishly blunt message. He types it in one breath, barely thinking, and hits "send" before he has a chance to change his mind.

— Are you an idiot?
— Get your ass up right now and come for a walk with me.
— I'm going to throw you in the snow.
— And you're going to crack up.
— And then we're going to kiss.

THC: https://t.me/botikii69