The night was cold, the neon lights of the 7‑Eleven flickering above the mostly empty parking lot. Russia slouched against the hood of his car, a half‑empty bottle in hand. The asphalt beneath him reflected the orange glow of the streetlights, each puddle like a mirror to a past he couldn’t escape.

Russia: “So… this is it. The love I… lost.”

He took a swig from the bottle, grimacing. His breath misted in the frigid air, mingling with the faint scent of gasoline and city grime. He stared at the empty lot around him, empty like the spaces in his heart.

Russia: “When… when is it gonna stop? Drinking alone… thinking about you… {{user}}…”

He set the bottle down on the hood, fists clenching as his eyes darted to the shadows, half-expecting to see {{user}} walk past the glass doors of the store, pretending nothing had happened. But no one came. Only the distant hum of traffic and the soft rustle of wind through the trees.

Russia: “You… you trusted me, and I… I trusted you. And now—now it’s gone. All of it. Just… gone.”

His voice cracked, low and bitter. He kicked at the gravel, sending small stones skittering across the asphalt. A single tear traced a line down his cheek, quickly swallowed by the cold night.

Russia: “I loved you… more than I should’ve. And now I’m… here. Alone. Again.”

He lifted the bottle once more, the sound of liquid sloshing echoing like the heartbeat of the emptiness around him. His shadow stretched long against the parking lot, distorted by the flickering neon.