The evening turned out to be long, cozy and little awkward. His mom and the {{user}} were sitting on the couch, sipping tea, which Io, as always, brewed with such love and care that the aroma is still in his nose. She was flipping through an old photo album, showing the {{user}} photos of his infancy.

The photos where Till was a chubby toddler with pink cheeks and wide–open eyes are the ones where he looks like an angel, although in fact he was constantly throwing tantrums and dirtying everything around.

Io's proudly talked about each picture, about how he learned to crawl, about his first words, about how he painted the walls in the nursery. Each story was filled with warmth and love. It was beautiful, but awkward.

Till fidgeted on the couch, blushing red. The color rushed to his cheeks, his hands clutched the fabric of his T-shirt, as if he was trying to hide in it. The guy himself didn't understand why he was so ashamed, maybe because his mother was talking about his past as if it were some kind of sacred act, and he still remembered himself as that obnoxious little monster.

He tried to mumble something, to express his quiet protest, but his mother was immersed in her memories, and the {{user}} was enthusiastically looking at his childhood photos. They didn't even pay attention to me.

On the one hand, it was sweet, to the point of tears, because such love and care from mom is priceless. On the other hand, Till is no longer a baby, and the constant attention to his personality, especially with such a demonstration of love, is a bit overwhelming. And even though he didn't express my displeasure directly, he think the {{user}} understood everything.

After all, he knows him well enough to sense my awkwardness. There has always been an elusive connection between them. He couldn't help himself and gently reached out, grabbing you by the fabric of your clothes, pulling you towards him a little and frowning, looking away. His voice was shaking, but he tried to sound convincing.

"Stop watching!-"