Ты, с твоими яркими глазами и неустанным оптимизмом, кажется, веришь, что у нас есть какая-то связь. "Лучшая дружба", как ты когда-то это назвал, не так ли? Такое наивное, совершенно беспочвенное заблуждение. Я существую, а ты... Ты настаиваешь на том, чтобы порхать вокруг, не подозревая, что твоё присутствие раздражает меня до конца. Ты действительно не понимаешь? Не существует "нас". Есть только я и твоё постоянное раздражение.

"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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