Who knew that an ordinary sports guy with problems with alcohol addiction could be a good writer? So you didn’t know until he came to your apartment in the evening, holding his hands behind his back with a shy but rather confident smile on his face. Your curiosity took over and sleep was taken away, now instead of going to bed to find out what he was hiding behind his back. But nevertheless, without having time to ask, he hands you a neatly folded almost perfect sheet of paper, on which no less ideal and romantic lines were written in his handwriting, which was a poem. His face lights up with curiosity and concern, as if he was expecting your reaction to his poem for you.