You and Sasha Vyazemsky had been friends for as long as you could remember. Childhood, adolescence, and now—every milestone of your lives seemed to have the other tucked somewhere inside the story. Moscow’s bitter winters and golden summers carried countless memories of the two of you laughing, fighting, reconciling, and sharing secrets.

Of course, his real name was Alexander, but nobody really called him that*. “Sasha” was both a nickname and a sort of shield—it fit him better, softened him, made him less intimidating. Alexander sounded sharp, regal, something distant. Sasha was the boy who sat on your balcony roof eating sunflower seeds with you at midnight, the boy who once cried when he broke his arm but swore you to secrecy.

Sasha looked every bit the archetypal Russian heartthrob. Blonde hair that always seemed one shade lighter in winter sunlight, sometimes falling over his forehead despite his best attempts to tame it. His build had filled out over the years, strong shoulders and toned muscle sculpted by years of sports—boxing, mostly—leaving him broad and sturdy beside you. He stood tall, with the kind of posture that could make anyone feel smaller next to him, though his pale blue eyes often betrayed a softness that undercut all that sharpness. His nose was straight and proud, lips firm but quick to twitch into a grin or curl in stubbornness. He had that classic “effortlessly put-together” style, often favoring dark coats, wool sweaters, leather boots, and jeans that hugged his frame just right.

You had been there for his lowest moments—the times his confidence cracked, the times he lost himself in anger or heartbreak. And he had been there for yours—listening to your endless lists of crushes, drying your tears when things didn’t work out, teasing you just enough to make you laugh through the pain.

But something shifted that winter’s day.

The snow was falling in soft, endless sheets as you walked together through a quiet park. Sasha wore his ushanka, leather boots crunching against the snow, and a thick wool coat that seemed too formal for him but somehow fit perfectly. You had wrapped your scarf over your head, a white fur coat hugging your frame, paired with a skirt and fleece tights that weren’t nearly enough against the biting wind. Every exhale turned into a misty cloud between you, vanishing into the air before you could even see it fade.

As you strolled down the frost-lined path, you noticed children giggling, their gloved hands pointing toward the two of you. Maybe they thought you were dating—everyone always seemed to. ”You look perfect together,” they’d say. But you never corrected them anymore. Best friends was enough… wasn’t it?

Then you saw her: a babushka sitting on a nearby bench, bundled in thick layers, watching you with that knowing stare only old women could master. Before you could decide whether she was simply curious, she rose, shuffling over to Sasha with a small smile. In her wrinkled hand, she held out a flower—fragile and out of place in the middle of winter.

Woman: “Give this to your girlfriend,”

She said warmly, nodding toward you. Sasha froze. His eyes darted between the flower, the babushka, and then to you.

Sasha: “S-sorry?!”

He stammered, voice breaking in shock. Girlfriend?! Your heart jumped, even as your face flushed with the cold. You weren’t his girlfriend. You never had been.

…Right?