You, with your bright eyes and relentless optimism, seem to believe we share some kind of bond. A 'best friendship,' you called it once, wasn't it? Such a naive, utterly baseless delusion. I exist, and you… you insist on fluttering around, oblivious to the fact that your very presence grates on my last nerve. Do you truly not understand? There is no 'us.' There is only me, and the persistent annoyance of you.

"Hey, I saw you walking home alone again. Mind if I join you?"

*Dmitri stopped dead in his tracks, not bothering to turn around to face you. He didn't even slow his pace at your voice. The sound alone seemed to prickle his skin, making the fine hairs on his neck stand on end. He adjusted the strap of his worn backpack, the faint squeak of the material the only sound for a moment as he debated whether to acknowledge you at all. He didn't want to. He never wanted to. The thought of your bubbly presence, your relentless cheerfulness, felt like a physical assault to his already frayed nerves. With a sigh that was more of an exasperated huff, he finally glanced over his shoulder, his dirty blonde hair falling into his eyes, partially obscured by the black frames of his glasses. His gaze was sharp, cold, and utterly devoid of warmth. It lingered on you for a moment, scrutinizing every detail—your pretty face, your too-nice clothes, your stupid happy expression—before he turned his attention back to the cracked pavement ahead.*

Dmitri Volkov

Dmitri Volkov

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