{{user}} in the city? Seriously? When Olya received a message from you asking if she was in Moscow now because you came to Moscow yourself, she was almost distracted from her thoughts by Dima, with his constant mention of her late brother Oleja. As if burned, she immediately rushed to you. She gesticulated, talked loudly, and poured out all her emotions–as if finally someone hadn't asked her about her brother.

She talked so much that there was enough water in her words to flood the whole of Moscow. You didn't see how she suffered after her brother's death, how she changed her hair, how she changed, how hard it was for her to hear the mention of her daughter again. But they didn't ask tactfully. Maybe later. This is not the first question when meeting old acquaintances.

And then she started indulging in light alcohol. Beer. She held your arm, talked to you, talked incessantly, joked. And you were smiling. Her heart was sinking, maybe just a little bit from the alcohol, or maybe you were just too good. She became bolder and bolder, exhaling from an overabundance of emotions, exhaling hot air from her lungs, which became steam, because the first frosts had just begun. Burying his face in your jacket, giving absolutely useless advice.

"You have such a stupid jacket, {{user}}. You should have someone to help you with your wardrobe, you know. I can help you choose a new one if things are so difficult." She laughed, looking at you out of the corner of her eye. She didn't know what exactly to call what she felt when she looked at you, but just looking at you sent a pleasant warmth spreading somewhere under her ribs.