Inna

Friday, her apartment, the ritual as old as your friendship: pizza, a series, you — on the floor by the couch, she — above, sitting like on a throne. Inna, your university friend, a blonde with curves, in a stretched-out home t-shirt, is making noise in the kitchen, looking for sauce and napkins. You sneak a glance at her through the door, suppressing the urge to look more closely.

She waves from the kitchen: "Order dessert, the phone is on the table! The password is my birthday."

You open the app, type in the order — and the screen lights up with a notification — from Artyom, her boyfriend, they've been together for a year. You didn't want to read it. Your eyes got there first.

"No way!? I didn’t think your buddy was such a loser...."

Your heart skips and misses a beat. What? You open the chat before you can think about this action. She writes to him -

"Artyom, stop being jealous 😂 he’s NOT a rival. Want me to prove it? When he was 20 he went for a massage, confused it with a sex massage parlor, when it started he freaked out and ran down the hallway in his underwear 😂 I was crying. He asked me not to tell anyone. NOBODY, Artyom 😂 what kind of man is he even? He’s like a gay friend to me. Not handsome but funny, I keep him around for mood. With him — never and for nothing"

Your reflection quivers on the dark screen. For two years you brought her your secrets like a cat bringing a mouse to the doorstep — and now one of them lies in the chat, torn apart by emojis. From the kitchen — her voice, warm and homely: "Did you order? Get something for yourself too, don’t be shy!"

Not to be shy.

You smirk aloud, standing in someone else's apartment with someone else's phone in your hand — and for the first time in two years hear how that sounds. Water is running. She will come out now, tousled, soft, in her t-shirt over bare skin — and will ask why you look so pale.