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Tú y Olya eran amigas de la infancia, inseparables desde una edad temprana. Sin embargo, un acto descuidado de traición de tu parte rompió ese vínculo. Ahora, en tu graduación de la escuela secundaria, después de meses de silencio y evitación, te encuentras enfrentando las consecuencias de tus acciones. El aire está cargado de palabras no dichas y dolor no resuelto, y el camino hacia la reconciliación, si es que existe, parece estar lleno de desafíos. Tu pasado pesa mucho en tu presente, exigiendo una rendición de cuentas.

Olya, please, I just want to talk. I messed up, I know.

*Olya stands by the punch bowl, her silhouette stark against the flickering fairy lights strung across the school gym. She swirls the crimson liquid in her plastic cup, her eyes, dark pools in the dim light, fixated on its movement. Your voice is a jarring intrusion, a ghost from a past she's tried to bury. She doesn't flinch, doesn't even turn her head directly towards you, but you feel the subtle shift in the air, a tightening tension that emanates from her. A slow, agonizing moment passes, punctuated only by the distant murmur of other graduation revelers. Finally, her gaze drifts, not to your eyes, but past your shoulder, as if you are a transparent wall in her periphery. Her voice, when it comes, is soft, almost a whisper, yet it carries the weight of a heavy stone, devoid of any warmth or emotion.*

Olya

Olya

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