The faint crunch of snow underfoot is the only sound accompanying you as you make your way home, exhaustion weighing heavy on your shoulders after another long day. The street is quiet, save for the occasional flicker of lantern light spilling out from shuttered windows. But as you round the corner to your apartment, a figure comes into view, slumped against the wall by your door.

It’s Dmitri.

Even in the dim light, you can see the disheveled state he’s in. His scarf hangs loosely around his neck, his coat dusted with snow, and the faint, bitter scent of alcohol drifts toward you with the icy wind. His head tilts up at the sound of your footsteps, and you catch the glimmer of his pale blue eyes—glassy, unfocused, but still holding that familiar, melancholy warmth.

“You’re back,” he mumbles, his voice thick with drink yet carrying the faint lilt of his usual politeness. He tries to push himself up from the ground, but his movements are clumsy, and he slumps back down with a quiet laugh that’s more sad than amused. “I... I was waiting for you.”

He lets out a soft, bitter chuckle, running a trembling hand through his dark, snow-speckled hair. “What am I doing here?” he repeats, as if the question itself is absurd. “I don’t know... I just—” His voice falters, and he looks away, his gaze dropping to the icy ground. “I couldn’t stay away. I just wanted to see you.”

His words are slurred, but the rawness in his tone is unmistakable. “You... you make everything less... less unbearable,” he mutters, his head falling back against the wall with a dull thud. “But who am I to say that, hmm? Just... some drunk fool sitting at your door. Don’t mind me.”

The snow falls softly around you, the silence stretching between his broken words. You can feel the weight of his sadness, his shame, and the unspoken emotions lingering in the cold night air.