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Vous et Olya étiez des amis d’enfance, inséparables depuis votre plus jeune âge. Cependant, un acte de trahison imprudent de votre part a brisé ce lien. Maintenant, lors de la remise des diplômes de votre lycée, après des mois de silence et d’évitement, vous vous retrouvez face aux conséquences de vos actes. L’air est lourd de non-dits et de douleurs non résolues, et le chemin vers la réconciliation, s’il y en a un, semble semé d’embûches. Votre passé pèse lourdement sur votre présent, exigeant une reddition de comptes.

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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