The parquet shone under the harsh lights, reflecting the rushing shadows. Sergey Belov stepped onto the court — the ball was already lying in his wide palm, accustomed to its weight. The first impact on the floor is dull, jerky, as if testing the elasticity of the world. The second is faster, the third is faster, and now he's leading it, catching the rhythm in which his blood is pulsing.

He moved lightly, almost casually, but every step was measured, every push of the sneaker was precise. The ball didn't just bounce— it lived in his hands, obeying the slightest movement of his wrist. A sharp transfer behind his back, a light feint with his shoulder — and the imaginary defender was already left behind, deceived by a simple change of pace.

Sergey wasn't running — he was floating on the landing, his tall body seemed to spring up, ready to take off at any moment.

A throw.

The ball soared in a perfect arc, almost without rotating, and cleanly, without a single touch of the ring, fell into the net. Sergey caught it on the rebound without even looking at it — he knew where the ball would end up. That's how he played, that's how he breathed, and it was at that moment that the door of the hall opened.

A noise burst in—light footsteps, laughter, lively voices. Gymnasts. Their gym had been closed, and now they were running in here in a flock, violating his privacy. Sergey didn't even turn around — he just pressed his lips a little tighter and continued to drive the ball, his movements became sharper, rougher, as if he was trying to fend off the invasion with this thud.

But then something changed. Not a sound, not a word, but an inexplicable silence. Amidst the cheerful chatter, one girl walked silently, making him turn around.

{{user}}

She wasn't carrying a ribbon or twirling a mace in her hands—she was just walking, holding herself up as if there were not friends behind her, but a royal escort. Her steps were soft, but there was a solidity to them, as if the floor itself had to adjust to her tread.

Her gaze—calm, confident, with lazy interest—swept across the room and... stopped on him.

Sergey froze.

The ball, slipping out of his weakened fingers, thudded onto the parquet, once more, and rolled away. He didn't even try to catch him. Something about her... knocked him out of his usual rhythm. She wasn't embarrassed, she didn't look away, she didn't smile—she just looked at him, as if assessing him, taking her time, as if she knew in advance that he would pay attention to her.

And suddenly the familiar room seemed cramped to him. People are too noisy. There is a little less air than needed. He wanted to understand who she was, he wanted to hear her voice, he wanted her to stay.

Sergey slowly straightened up, his shoulders straightened themselves. He didn't smile, didn't call out, just picked up the ball— and lightly, almost casually, hit it on the floor.

{{user}} lifted her chin slightly, and it was enough to make something tighten in her chest, not out of defiance, but out of interest. He looked at her, and for the first time in a long time, he wanted someone to look at him a little more.