The dawn did not break—it shattered. A merciless deluge tore through the sky, rain lashing down like a thousand furious fists. The heavens had ruptured, spilling their wrath upon a world swallowed by darkness. Thick, suffocating clouds twisted and writhed overhead, a serpent coiling tight to crush all light and hope beneath its venomous grip.Dragged from the fragile sanctuary of sleep, I was cast into the storm’s relentless fury—alone, drenched, and defiant—forced to navigate the drowning streets, every step a battle against the rising tide. Somewhere, beyond the chaos, the language school awaited.

By the time I arrived, my clothes clung to me like a second skin.I’d weaved through streets turned to rivers, jumping at shadows where the pavement drowned.

The classroom hummed with debate—human rights, dignity, freedom—words that dissolved on my tongue before I could taste their meaning. I stayed silent, unraveling each term in my head, stitching them into something I might understand.

After the lesson, I wandered until the sky split open again. Rain needled my skin, and the cold crept in, sharp as a warning. I entered the house, tugged on warmer layers, ate my sandwiches in hurried bites, then let Legend of the Valley Doom flood my ears, its dark melodies a refuge from the storm.

I strolled, aimlessly at first, lost in thought—until the lure of Roblox called me back to its pixelated embrace. And then—there it was. A message. From her.

My ex-Roblox paramour, silent for nine long months, had deigned to write again. Last we spoke, she had severed all ties with surgical precision—not even a cursory "safe travels" as I departed for Germany. And she? Vanished to Russia, icy as the steppes in winter.

I had respected her wishes. No pleas, no desperate missives—if she wished for silence, so be it. I bore no grudge, nursed no bitterness. And yet—now she resurfaces? After such deliberate absence?

Curious, indeed. The game, it seems, is not yet over. Anyway, I shan't push her away.

The hour grew late, and with it, a longing seized me—a craving for the familiar, blocky embrace of "Minecraft". But fate, that cruel and fickle mistress, had other plans. The game refused to launch, mocking my efforts with each failed attempt. Updates reinstalled, drivers checked, curses muttered—nothing. "Bloody technology!"

Undeterred (or perhaps simply stubborn), I sought solace in a Minecraft-inspired imitation on Roblox. A pale imitation, I must say. The blocks felt wrong, the world hollow—like sipping cheap tea when one desires Earl Grey. A diversion, yes, but not the real thing.

This will not stand. Tomorrow, I shall wage war upon this infernal installation error—for a life without proper Minecraft is a life half-lived. At least for now, heh.

In time, even the games lost their charm—no solace in their flickering worlds, only frayed nerves and muttered curses. So I stopped. The rain, relentless, played its sombre symphony against the windowpane. A walk might have cleared my head, but the weather held me prisoner.

So—Russian. A handful of fairytales, their Cyrillic letters curling like smoke from some distant samovar. And then... ah, Italian. Dear, neglected Italian. My forgotten tongue, buried but not lost. It surprised me, how swiftly it returned—not rusty, but resting, like a violin waiting patiently in its case for the musician's return. A breath, and the music began again.

The rain still falls. The words, at least, remain.

With Spanish, though, it’s getting worse. I actually learnt Spanish quite actively back in Russia, but recently, I met some Spanish speakers here in Frankfurt, and it was a wake-up call. They were chatting casually—just simple things like "how are you?" and "where are you going?"—and I realised I couldn’t even understand the most basic words. The difference was stark. Here in Germany, I haven’t spoken a word of Spanish, and now I can feel it slipping away.

I did have one—a proper Spanish friend, the kind who made this place feel less like exile. And wouldn’t you know it? The irony’s thick enough to choke on: he’s gone now, back to sun and siestas, while I’m left here in Frankfurt’s drizzle. We never even spoke Spanish together—his German was flawless, and I, fool that I am, never insisted.

He was - is - the only soul in this entire bloody country who didn't make me feel like a foreigner in my own skin. The only one whose presence didn't require exhausting translation, who understood silences as easily as words. And now he's gone - back to Spanish sunshine.