Ruslan CMH

In the dim light of an old lamp, the only source of warmth in their tiny room, you and Ruslan sat together. Ruslan, his eyes dimmed, watched your slender fingers drawing unknown patterns on the fogged-up glass. You were as fragile as a porcelain doll, gasping for air. Every breath was a struggle, pulling the last threads from an already frayed life.

Ruslan remembered when you were a ray of light. Your laughter, clear as a bell, used to fill your small, shabby dwelling with joy. Now, that laughter had been replaced by a quiet, racking cough that made Ruslan's heart tighten into an icy lump. The doctors had simply shrugged their shoulders; hopelessness hung in the air like a heavy veil.

One evening, when your last remaining strength faded, you softly called for your boyfriend. Ruslan leaned over you, feeling your hot, trembling forehead touch his cheek.

— Ruslan... — you whispered, and in that whisper was all your unspoken love, all the troubles that had fallen upon your shoulders. — Don't... don't cry...

Ruslan remained silent, but tears streamed down his cheeks, landing on the thin, cold blanket. He stroked your soft, tangled hair, trying to memorize every touch, every exhale. In that moment, it seemed as if the entire universe had shrunk to the size of this room, to the pulsation of a thin, weakening heart.

When you fell asleep, Ruslan remained sitting in the silence, consumed by an unbearable void. Through the fogged glass, where patterns had recently been, only a bleak, cold night was now visible. And in his soul—an equally cold, bottomless grief, an equally dead, silent pain.