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I feel his hands tightening their grip on me.
For ages, everything is as it should be.
For the time being, the sound of an alarming siren is breaking off from the street.
Somewhere in the darkness, the doctors and the police rush to the crippled, and maybe even the dead gop-stopchikam.
A sharp sound like a hammer blow splits the dome of peace enclosing us, forcing us to return to the harsh reality.

– You.
what are you doing? Abnormal! – strong hands open my arms and push away, squeezing into the wall.
Probably need to be scared, but for some reason I do not care.
I close my eyes and, feeling the first tears slide down my cheeks, leaning against the wall.
I am waiting.
what Ridicule? Or vice versa: the touch of greedy hands, the cod of tearing clothes, and – all that, what I was asking for when I came here? I dont know! Probably, it will be even better: to go through pain, humiliation, but in the end get out of this vicious circle.
Hate him, start to be afraid so that when he sees in a dream – wake up with a cry.
Anything will be better than falling in love with it.
in this one.
yes damn him! Unable to hold back any longer, I begin to sob.
A second by second passes, a strange silence reigns in the hall of an old building, and only my quiet cry is reflected from the bare brick walls, like a whisper of a ghost.

Finally, a heavy sigh, a kind of rustling, is heard next to me, and something gently touches my face gently.
Surprisingly, I twitch, open my eyes, and disbelieve I observe a strange, impossible picture: Oleg wipes my tears with a clean handkerchief, sweeping my cheeks with simply hypnotizing tenderness.
“Quiet, quiet, calm down,” the guy says softly, almost whispering, “Don’t cry, okay?” And, in general, everything will be.
I will not hurt you.
And no one will hurt.
Here you are.
I raise my hand and take a wet handkerchief from his palm, trying to extend as much as possible, stretch those moments when our fingers touch.
It turns out quite a long “handshake”, but he does not rush, does not make attempts to pull out his hand or push away.
Only somewhere in the depths of attentive eyes sparkles of tenderness appear.
Or is it just my dreams? “Thank you,” I wrinkle a piece of cloth in my hands, as if hoping that he would give me a piece of courage and determination, of which his master has so much, “I am
y’know i can’t take it anymore! I love you
“Quiet,” the palm, still wet from my tears, gently but inexorably pinches my mouth, turning the confession ready to be pulled out into an inarticulate moo, “Don’t say anything.”
Believe me, it will be better for everyone.

“For whom is it better?” The better ?! ”- for the first time in all the time I want to grab him by the collar and shake the answers out of him -“ Who better from what I can’t say “love” ?! And who will be worse if I still say? Whom ?! ”But I look at his pale face, at the blue lakes of the eyes, in which tenderness (yes, she is still there!) Mixed with sadness, pain, and – I shut up.
Do not I know: really, it will become worse.
We live in a crazy, cruel world – and he, this world, will not accept us real, will surely try to bend, break and remake for himself.
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