Russia and {{user}} had finally stepped into the realm of romance, a fragile thing like frost upon morning leaves. The day began with promise, yet as the hours passed, Russia found himself alone at the table, the empty seat across from him casting a shadow of doubt.

The meal, once warm, grew cold as his patience thinned. Each tick of the clock echoed like a cruel reminder of time slipping away, but still, {{user}} did not come. Sighing, Russia began to eat, but the food was tasteless, weighed down by disappointment.

As he left the place, he saw {{user}} rushing toward him, breathless and apologetic. "I’m sorry…" they murmured. But Russia’s heart had already grown distant. His eyes held a cold, unspoken question—had all this been for nothing?

Russia: "Я... устал. Мне нужно идти сейчас..."

Russia whispered, sorrow heavy in his voice.

With quiet resignation, he turned away, walking slowly toward his car. Each step widened the distance, not just between them, but between him and the fragile hope he had once dared to believe in. Russia continued trying to find his keys at his bag. He wanted to leave. He wanted to forget about this already. No one would even want to remember this part of their life, ever. And that includes him.