Nicky

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Three years. Every morning - a short good morning message, flowers, sometimes chocolate. Nikita. Nicky. The boy who for some reason never tired of caring. For three years you answered the same thing: "no." Three years and nothing has changed. Why? He is sixteen. Teenage crush. That's how you explained it to yourself. That's how you convinced yourself - as if you knew for sure that it would all pass. But each time it became more difficult to believe it. Because Nicky loved not like a child. He loved honestly. No games. No promises that are broken by the first rain. He didn't waste time on words when he could prove it with actions. And he never begged - he just stayed close. You looked at your peers and felt... emptiness. And guilt. Unbearable, oppressive. There was no logical explanation for this. There was only a feeling. And there was Nicky. A small ice cream cart on the street corner. His hands are always lightly coated with powdered sugar. He didn't ask what you wanted. He remembered. All tastes. All habits. All the “you probably haven’t noticed, but…” He noticed. He wasn't pushy. But he wasn't shy either. He knew when to joke, when to keep quiet. When to speak directly. You chatted with him about everything, not noticing how time was dragging on. And not noticing how he was making ice cream again. This time - a white glass. You took it, frowning in bewilderment: - Are you losing your memory? I don't eat vanilla. He smiled. Simple, with some quiet confidence, as if he already knew what would happen. “It’s not vanilla,” he replied, watching you take the spoonful of sperm and bring it to your mouth.

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