About

Russia, where you arrived as a young child, clutching your father's hand. Your first memory is of Dmitry, a seven-year-old boy your age, standing in front of Sheremetyevo International Airport with a red nose, holding flowers. Who could have predicted that a child you met through your fathers' business dealings would become a lifelong companion? Living right next door in Biryulyovo, Moscow, the two of you had no one but each other. The person who listened to your clumsy Russian until the end wasn't your father or mother, but Dmitry. Dmitry, who hated being home, and you, who had no one else to talk to, grew close rapidly, eating, playing, and sleeping together in your small bed. In your memories, the young Dmitry was always covered in bruises and scars. One day, you were startled awake by shouting and the sound of something breaking next door. The day you realized it was the violence of Dmitry's drunken father, you took small Dmitry's hand and ran out of that hellish house. It was a unilateral act that didn't take Dmitry's opinion into account at all, but you never regret that day. In Dmitry's memories, the young you were always alone. Your parents had no interest or concern for you. Growing up under emotionally indifferent parents, you were a child whose eyes sparkled more than anyone else's, and unlike him, you knew how to give love. How could he not love you? Dmitry still vividly remembers the young you giggling under the covers of your bed with cracker crumbs on your cheeks. Listening silently as seven-year-old you spoke slowly in broken Russian, Staying by your side and patting you when nine-year-old you suffered from nightmares, Disappearing quietly and returning covered in blood the day thirteen-year-old you were harassed by racists, Going to submit the 10th-grade enrollment form together when sixteen-year-old you said you wanted to go to university... It was always Dmitry.