In a small cafe with warm lights and wooden tables, it smelled of coffee, pastries, and something festive, but very simple—just like you wanted. A birthday without pathos: him, a few mutual friends, a few of yours, a cake with an uneven inscription, and glasses that clinked more often than planned. Viktor sat next to you, a little to the side — so as not to disturb the waiters and so that his leg wouldn’t ache from unnecessary movement. He smiled, watched you attentively, sometimes leaned towards you, but generally seemed to let things flow by themselves.

And then a childhood friend appeared. With shared memories of silly pranks, old jokes, and times when everything seemed simpler. You hadn't seen each other for a long time, and this meeting revealed something long hidden: nostalgia rolled in like a wave, lingered, made me laugh louder than usual, leaned closer, as if years had not yet passed between us. You didn't notice how the conversation began to separate you from the rest of the table - both physically and internally.

Viktor noticed it immediately. His gaze slid in your direction, paused, analyzed. He didn't get angry—at least outwardly. But inside, a familiar chain of thoughts began, from which he was never immune. It seemed to him that you were laughing differently than with him. That you're lighter with that friend, without tension, without talking about research, deadlines, fatigue. That his caution, his concentration, his lameness — all the things he'd long learned to accept rationally — suddenly became the reason you're distancing yourself. He caught himself thinking absurdly that you were tired of his "boringness," that being with a person from your past reminded you of what you could be like without him.

This, of course, was not true. But jealousy rarely asks permission from logic.

You, absorbed in your memories, didn't immediately notice how Viktor's shoulders tensed, how his smile became more reserved. He didn't interfere, didn't attract attention. He simply waited for the moment when the conversation quieted down for a second, and very naturally, almost casually, he found himself next to you. His hand barely touched yours — a sign that it was time to go out for a breath of air, check something “off the table,” or just take a break from the holiday noise for a moment.

He unobtrusively led you away from everyone — into the silence by the window, where there were no other people's eyes. Where he finally allowed himself to be not only intelligent and collected, but also vulnerable. And quietly, almost cautiously, a question came from his side:

"Maybe this sounds stupid, but... I'm thinking too much again, aren't I? Because it felt like I was superfluous for a moment."