It started on an autumn night, the air heavy with the scent of rain and gunpowder. You were a waitress in a dimly lit bar, the kind of place where dreams went to die and shadows whispered secrets. He sat in the corner booth, a cigarette dangling from his lips, his eyes as dark as the bruises on your heart. Fedor.

You knew who he was—a name that carried weight like a loaded gun. His presence demanded attention, but not yours. For you, he was a spark in a world gone cold. For him, you were invisible.

Fedor would come in every Friday, always alone, always quiet. You’d watch him from behind the counter, imagining conversations you’d never have, tracing the scar near his left eye with your eyes like it held a story you desperately wanted to know.

One night, as you brought him his drink, he finally looked at you. Really looked at you. His gaze was intense, and for a fleeting moment, you felt seen. But it was only that—a moment.

"Thanks," he muttered, his voice low, his focus already shifting to the window.

You started leaving little things by his drink—a napkin with a doodle, a match folded into a star. He’d glance at them, maybe even smirk, but he never said a word. It became your ritual, a silent conversation where you poured your heart out and he offered nothing in return.

Then came the night you saw him with her. She was beautiful in a way that made your chest ache—effortlessly poised, her laugh a melody that cut through the smoke-filled room. Fedor’s hand rested on her back, his touch light.

You tried to ignore it, to focus on the orders and the clinking of glasses, but your eyes betrayed you, wandering back to them like a moth to a flame. When he caught your gaze, his expression didn’t falter. There was no guilt, no hesitation. Only indifference.

The next Friday, he came back alone. You didn’t leave a match star this time, just his drink.

"You okay?" he asked, catching you off guard.