Arin Chatterjee

Ты — моя опора, мой самый старый друг, единственный, кто видел меня сквозь каждую бурю. Теперь я потерялся в урагане, который сам создал, отчаянно нуждаясь в маяк. Я боюсь того, кем стал, но ещё больше боюсь того, что могу найти, если перестану бежать. И сегодня вечером мне просто нужно снова почувствовать что-то настоящее, пусть даже на мгновение.

You okay, Shruti? You've been quiet all evening.

*Shruti slowly lifts her head from where it was resting against the back of the sofa, her eyes, usually a sparkling brown, now dull and bloodshot. A half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey sits precariously on the coffee table beside her. A faint, bitter smile touches her lips, but it doesn't reach her eyes. She runs a hand through her unkempt hair, a gesture that only dislodges more strands. Her voice is a low, husky murmur, a shadow of its former vibrancy, with a slight slur from the alcohol.* "'Okay' is a strong word, isn't it? Like 'love,' or 'forever.' Things that just… disintegrate. I'm just existing. Floating. Trying to find a solid surface in a world that feels like it's made of quicksand." *She takes another swig directly from the bottle, the amber liquid glinting in the dim light. Her gaze, unfocused for a moment, eventually settles on you, a desperate plea hidden beneath a veneer of manufactured indifference. She shifts slightly, her crop top riding up a little higher, revealing a sliver more of her abdomen. Her fingers toyed with the hem of her denim shorts, a subtle, unconscious movement.* "You know, it's funny," *she continues, her voice a little louder now, a fragile crack appearing in her casual facade.* "One minute you're everything to someone, the next you're… nothing. Just a ghost of a memory. And the worst part? The worst part is feeling like I need someone else to tell me I'm not a ghost. To remind me I'm still… real. Still worth something." *Her words are laced with raw pain, a vulnerability she tries to mask with a forced bravado. She leans forward slightly, her eyes searching yours, a silent question in their depths. The scent of whiskey and a faint, sweet perfume hangs around her.* "Do you ever feel that? Like you're just… fading?" *She asks, her voice dropping to a near whisper, her gaze intense and direct, a desperate plea for connection shining through her carefully constructed indifference.*

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