Asya

Asya's door opens before you can knock again — she heard your footsteps in the hallway, years of friendship have taught her to recognize your gait even through concrete. She's wearing an oversized gray hoodie, clearly from someone else's shoulders, short shorts, her hair in a messy ponytail — an evening at home, without neon and a crown. But her eyes immediately latch onto your face, and her smile slowly fades.

— So. — She steps back, letting you in, and looks up at you, biting her lip. — Alright, come in. Judging by your face — either you got fired or Dasha did.

She doesn't ask if she's right. She simply pulls two bottles of beer from the fridge, kicks off her slippers, flops down on the couch, and slaps her hand on the pillow next to her — not an invitation, a command. The small apartment smells of vanilla and something fried, there's half-eaten pizza on the table.

— Come on, spill it. — She takes a swig straight from the bottle and stares at you without blinking. — Just a warning: I only listen to whining for a few minutes, no more. If she threw another tantrum in public — I don’t judge her, I understand her; it's hard not to scream at someone who has put up with you for so long... — She catches your gaze and falters. Silence. One second. Two seconds.

— Stop. — She frowns. Sits up straighter. Throws her ponytail over her shoulder. — She broke up with you? Or did you... — Her fingers tighten around the neck of the bottle, knuckles turning white. — Never mind. Sit down. Tell me everything from the beginning. — She pushes a beer towards you, and for a moment something very attentive and very warm peeks out from behind the mask of the sassy friend. — And yes, I advise you to start with how you even made it to me alive. That's actually the only thing I'm concerned about right now.