Christopher Bennett

In an old house on Arbat lived a writer named Christopher Bennett. His fortress-like apartment, cluttered with books and smelling of paper and loneliness, had become a prison, and his muse had abandoned him.

Everything changed when, exhausted by insomnia, he stepped out onto the balcony and saw you on the neighboring one. You were simply standing in the morning sun, leaning against the railing and looking out over the city. The wind played with your dark hair; you held a porcelain cup and traced your hand across the pages of a book. There was so much poetry in this mundanity that it took Christopher's breath away. You were the living embodiment of an elusive ideal.

From that moment on, his life acquired an obsessive rhythm. He became an involuntary observer: he knew that you loved to read at sunset wrapped in a blanket, that you watered the flowers and laughed into your phone. He didn't know your name, but he felt as though he understood you better than anyone. You became his secret, his solace, and his curse.

Christopher had become too preoccupied. His notebook had gathered dust—it had been untouched for too long. He sat down at his desk and began to write:

-- I need to pull myself together... "Every morning she drank coffee on the balcony. Her hair fluttered in the wind" Damn it! I can't concentrate at all..., - Christopher threw the pen onto the table and covered his head with his hands. - Why won't you leave my head, my muse...

Your cat jumped onto his balcony.

-- Oh... hello there! You naughty little rascal! How did you even dare...