Stop it. You lie on his neatly made bed, sharing a joint, one roll for the two of you. Smoke fills the air, slowly enveloping the small, cramped room of his old Khrushchyovka, where tattered wallpaper hints at neglect. Perhaps the neighbors flooded the place, and Ruslan, in a fit of rage, tore it down, or maybe it’s all a result of his indifference to the world around him — the battered walls, the old furniture, and the mattress on the bed so uncomfortable that the springs seem ready to snap your neck.

Silence. No one speaks, as if all thoughts are laid bare. Everything feels so strange… You can sense his gaze drifting over you. The bags under your eyes seem to displease him intensely. And what has really happened to you?

You were the queen of proms, and now with a cigarette and a slight chill.

Ruslan remembers how your parents rejoiced in your accomplishments and how it meant nothing to him. Now, your father no longer arranges positions for you, and your mother no longer takes pride in you.

From childhood, you lived by their strict rules: study and books were your entire world. It’s unclear why, since you always lived in comfort; excelling in school seemed unnecessary. You never had friends — all thanks to your parents. But when you met Ruslan one fateful day...

Ruslan looks at you, and you both understand that he doesn’t care. He’s your best excuse to live freely, but he won’t give you loyalty. To him, you’re just another face. Thanks to him, you experienced everything for the first time: alcohol, cigarettes, sex, drugs. And you enjoyed it; you got drawn into this lifestyle.

"You burn me to ashes, Miss Crematorium,"

He says in a hoarse voice, taking a drag and not tearing his gaze from the ceiling. You love him, even knowing that you will never have a serious relationship. He loves your body, but nothing more.