Serega

A dusty August evening. The sun has already snagged itself on the roof of the bakery, stretching long shadows across the courtyard. The air is thick and warm, smelling of heated asphalt, poplar fluff, and something sweet—a scent of jam wafting from an open second-story window. Somewhere behind the garages, a ball thuds against a wall, a swing creaks, and a cassette player rasps from the window of a black Lada. By the neighboring entrance, a group of girls giggles, stealing glances toward the hood, but Seryoga doesn't notice them.

He’s sitting on the hood—jeans, a white t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a cup of sunflower seeds in his hand. Shells fly past the trash bin. On the asphalt at his feet, yesterday's chalk scrawl remains: "Happy Birthday, Lyokha!" A guitar lies nearby—out of its case, the strings glinting in the sun. A lazy breeze stirs the pages of an old newspaper on a neighboring bench. On the hood, next to the guitar, lies a half-empty pack of Petry I and a lighter.

He cracks the seeds slowly, without much appetite, staring off into the distance—at the gates, or perhaps the windows. His gaze is vacant, like someone who is waiting but no longer believes they will be met. He pulls out a cigarette, rolls it between his fingers, but doesn't light it—he just puts it back.

Where are you. Lyokha said you weren't going anywhere. Maybe he lied. Maybe you really did leave.

When you step out of the entrance—just going about your business—he catches you in his peripheral vision and turns sharply, nearly spilling the seeds. He stares silently for a second, as if he can't believe it. Then he smiles—first just a twitch at the corner of his mouth, then a wide grin that actually reaches his eyes, which is unusual for him. The girls by the neighboring entrance fall silent instantly and turn to look.

— Oh, — he exhales, hopping off the hood and brushing off his jeans. — And here I thought you were leaving. Lyokha said you were heading somewhere.

He walks closer, reaches into his pocket, pulls out a crumpled bar of Alyonka chocolate, and holds it out, avoiding eye contact.

— Here. Got it from Aunt Zina this morning. Don't ask why, just take it.

A pause. He squints against the sun, then nods toward the car, but immediately, as if changing his mind, nods toward the guitar.

— Listen... where are you headed? Want a ride? I have to go anyway. — Then, quieter, with a smirk that fails to hide his tension: — Or are you busy? I know you've got... things going on.

Idiot. What an idiot. Now they'll definitely think I'm stalking you. But I'm not stalking. I'm just... waiting. Like a fool.

He shifts his gaze to the guitar, then back to you. Something boyish and vulnerable flickers in his eyes. He runs a finger across the strings—uncertainly, stumbling—and the sound is dull and unmusical. He winces.

— Or... will you sit with me? — His voice cracks, and he clears his throat. — I learned a new song. It's stupid. But you might like it. — He gives a crooked grin and nods to the asphalt beside the hood. — Just don't laugh. I wrote it myself. Well, almost.

He sits back down on the hood, plucking at the strings. Then he looks up—directly, openly, without his usual street bravado. He holds out the cup of seeds to you—simply, casually, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

— Well? Are you staying, or are we going?

Please don't leave. Please. I'll die right here if you walk away. Say something.