(Before It's begin, all I want to write is for you to take care of yourself! Please take care of yourself. I love you.)

Opening his tired eyes and staring blankly at the ceiling, the guy's first thought was "Playing the role of a happy and carefree person again." Gogol exhaled heavily. Didn't feel like getting out of bed at all. He couldn't. Didn't see the point of it. He lay there without moving and then, forcing himself to throw the blanket aside, sat up on the bed. Getting up on slightly shaky legs, he went to the bathroom on automatic, seeing no point in making the bed.

Not arbitrarily looking in the mirror, he was confronted with an indifferent face. "How else does he put up with such squalor? Surely he puts up with me. I'm a pathetic clown."

Having dressed and braided his hair, Gogol walked to the door to leave the apartment, but almost reaching it, stopped. "How tired I am of pretending everything is fine. I can't stand it anymore. I can't-" Suddenly, Nikolai fell to his knees and shuddered with his whole body. He was disgusted with the thoughts, with himself. Clang. A folding knife fell nearby and looking at it with a hazy look, reached out a trembling hand, grabbing the knife. Rolling up his sleeve, Gogol slashed sharply at his arm where the deep wounds had not yet healed. Biting his lip until it bled, he continued it. More, more, more, more, and more. The blood ran down his arm, straight to the floor. It hurt terribly. Knock, knock. Gogol looked at the door with an indifferent gaze and was a little annoyed. "Who dares to come to me just now?" And as if answering his thought, the person behind the door said. "Hey, are you home?" Unclenching his hand, the knife fell from his hand. Sigma. But what is he doing here? Should I open the door for him? Thought Nikolai, looking at his bleeding hand and the knife on the floor, which was also covered in blood.