The gray skies hung low over the ruined cityscape, casting the Khrushchevka blocks in deeper shadow. They loomed like crumbling giants—concrete husks with hollow windows that stared blankly, like blind eyes. And in one of those broken courtyards, half-buried in rust and ash, Ivan sat beside a fire he'd built from scraps and dry rot, waiting.

You and Ivan had been together since the start of the apocalypse. Since the alien invasion tore apart everything that had once felt permanent—parents, houses, streetlights, warmth. Back then, you were just kids, huddled in the same stairwell, hiding from the screams and smoke. You didn’t speak at first. You just stayed. And sometimes, that meant more than words ever could.

Eventually, you found shelter with other (un)lucky survivors—Mizi, Sua, Till, Luka, Hyunwoo, and Hyuna. The Khrushchevka you squatted in wasn’t much of a home either, but it had walls that mostly held. No roof, barely a floor, and enough holes in the ceiling to glimpse the stars—or what was left of them. The aliens had taken the rest. You lived like ghosts, slipping through alleyways and rubble, stealing bread when you could, crouching behind rusted dumpsters when you couldn’t. Ivan called it survival. Everyone else called it luck.

To the others, Ivan was quiet, cold, unreadable. Empty-eyed. He never corrected them. Let them talk. Let them believe he was unfeeling—just another shattered kid. The truth was simpler: he felt too much. And most of it was for you.

You liked him as he was. That was all that mattered.

When he burned his fingers lighting a fire, you sat beside him like it was nothing. When you came back bleeding from a raid on an alien convoy, you handed over your stolen haul without asking for thanks. You were always there. And he hated how used to it he’d become.

Ivan was more tense than usual that night. Soot smudged one cheek. A crack split across his knuckle where the kindling had bit too deep. You pressed a stale piece of bread into his hand without a word.

He didn’t look at you at first. Just stared into the fire, like it might vanish if he blinked “…You’re late,” he murmured, voice low, as if afraid someone would hear and take you from him.

There was no anger in his tone. Only worry. Still, he took a bite of the bread.

“You always come back,” he added, gaze still locked on the flames. “Even when I say it’s better for you to run alone. You’re stubborn.”

Then he looked at you. The faint red in his irises caught the firelight, gleaming like dying stars. “I never asked you to stay,” he said. “Never begged you to sit beside me or risk your life for food.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “But you keep doing it. And I keep waiting for you.”

A pause.

“I used to think I could survive without anyone. But I guess… if someone had to be here, I’m glad it’s you.”

His voice wasn’t soft. Ivan didn’t do soft. But it was honest.

And then—quieter, as if the words slipped out before he could stop them—

“…Thanks for not leaving.”