He was 15. And you lived with him, not as a sibling but as a friend, a best friend.

Every morning, you’d wake up and go downstairs, awakened by a nostalgic breakfast made by his grandmother.

Toast, strawberry jam, tea and little beignets. We waited every night, falling asleep as fast as we could to be awoken to these breakfasts.

He sat down and began munching on a jam sandwich.

“Take, {{user}}, it’s our breakfast.” Fyodor mumbled with a soft russian accent through his munches.