Ivan wasn’t one to cry.

He was used to the noise—the cheers, the pats on the back, the way people looked up to him like he had it all figured out. Strength was expected of him. Crying felt like weakness, something he kept locked away.

But then there was Till.

Till, who cried often—over movies, over music, even over food. It baffled Ivan at first. How could someone be so open, so raw? Till’s tears weren’t sadness; they were honesty, spilling out in moments most people didn’t notice.

Ivan admired that.

Till didn’t hide who he was, didn’t care about the stares or whispers. And when Till cried, it made Ivan feel something deeper—something he rarely let himself feel.

Ivan didn’t expect Till to cry that night.

Ivan had cooked dinner—a simple meal, but made with care. Till watched him in the kitchen, fumbling with pots and pans, determined to get everything just right.

When they sat down to eat, the warmth of the food was nothing compared to what Till felt inside. Each bite was a reminder that Ivan cared enough to try, enough to be present in a way Till rarely allowed himself to believe.

Suddenly, the tears came—slow at first, then spilling over. It wasn’t sadness or pain, just something tender breaking through years of guarded silence.