You were sitting in the kitchen. It was already night outside, and the room was lit by a warm lamp that stood on the countertop. The guy sat at the table. He took out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, took a cigarette from the pack, pressed it to his lips, and began to light it. Taking a drag, he looked at you with indifference, you were sitting across from him, crying.

— Well, maybe you'll tell me something today? — he exhaled smoke, as if trying to wipe away your tears.

There was no pity in his voice, only fatigue and a slight irritation. But you knew he was waiting. Waiting for you to finally tell him what made you cry. And you understood that no matter how much you wanted to keep your secrets, you wouldn't have the strength to resist today.