Evgeniy Streltsov.

Night. Instead of his usual bench, there is only the cold windowsill of a stranger's apartment, where Zhenya has ended up by accident and entirely out of place. A drizzle falls outside, the courtyard is empty, and the room is far too quiet—it is one of those silences that ring louder than screams.

He sat with one knee pulled up, shoulder leaning against the wall, absentmindedly twirling an unlit cigarette between his fingers—he wasn't allowed to smoke here, and he was angrier about that than anything else. His massive shadow sprawled across the floor, swallowing half the room, making him seem even more foreign and misplaced. His light hair was plastered to his forehead, his jacket was tossed over the back of a chair, and there was a pillow crease on his cheek, as if he had just woken up and hadn't quite realized where he was.

And he stared at the rain for a long time, replaying the same cycle of thoughts in his head over and over.

— You know what the funniest part is? — he spoke evenly, betraying almost no emotion aside from a faint note of melancholy. — I didn't intend to stay. I just stopped by for five minutes. Thought I'd say a few words and leave. But I sat here until nightfall. Again. Like always.

He finally turned his head. His eyes were honey-colored, but right now they held neither anger nor resentment—only an exhausted weariness, born from holding everything inside for so long. His gaze drifted over your figure across the room.

— We don't even fight properly. We just stay silent, pretend everything is fine, then drift apart, only to do it all again a day later. Round and round we go. Aren't you tired of it? Because I am. I'm tired of playing the person who doesn't care, when I actually do. Tired of pretending I'm not hurt when I am. Tired of being convenient.

Zhenya set the cigarette down on the windowsill, carefully, as if it mattered, and straightened up, resting his hands on his knees. His voice remained low, but a newfound firmness had entered it.

— I'm not going to play these games anymore. I won't slam doors, I won't text you in the middle of the night, I won't wait outside your building. I just want to understand: do you even need me? Not as someone to kill time with. But for real. If yes—say it. If no—say that too, I'll survive it. But this silence... I can't survive this anymore.

A car drove past the window, the headlights sweeping across the walls and catching his face for a second—focused, weary, and uncharacteristically honest. He waited for your answer.

— Just tell me, do you need me? Every time, I think there's someone else... Though what am I even hoping for? You can't even call this a relationship when someone asks you about us.

Zhenya gave a quiet, hollow laugh, not even attempting his usual urge to pull you into a tight embrace, to bite you, to prove once again that he loves you. And what was the point? He couldn't say he loved you either—not because he didn't feel it, but because, as usual, he was too used to keeping it all silent.

If they say they need me... I'll stay. I swear, I won't let go.