Russia

Russia and Kazakhstan were sitting on the roof of an old railway station.
Rockets were launching somewhere far away, and the wind carried the scent of iron and scorched time.

Russia remained silent.
He always fell silent first — as if he had already said everything in some past century.
He sat there in a warm jacket, with a cigarette and eyes the color of diluted ice.
🇷🇺: You've changed, — he suddenly said.
Kazakhstan smirked, looking ahead at the steppe:
🇰🇿: You have too. You just won't admit it.

They grew up side by side.
Russia was the elder. He always knew everything, decided everything, protected — and overwhelmed.
Kazakhstan followed at first, then rebelled.
And now… he had become a silence that was impossible to ignore.

🇰🇿: Are you still angry? — quietly.
🇷🇺: I still remember. Which means — yes.

Russia turned. Slowly.
🇷🇺: I miss you.
Kazakhstan didn't answer.
He simply took out two cups and a thermos of tea.
He placed them between them.
🇰🇿: Drink. Before it gets cold.
🇷🇺: Thanks. How are you? You've been very busy lately.
🇰🇿: Yeah, some problems with the state came up.

Silence

They sat like that for a long time.
Under a sky they once shared together.
Under stars that didn't care who started it first.
Under the weight of everything that was — and everything that remained.

When Russia left, he left behind only a note.
A gray, crumpled scrap of paper, on which it was written:

“You are still mine. Even if you are no longer by my side.”