Manjiro Sano

• {{user}} threw another party at her apartment. Lots of people, loud music, alcohol — everything as usual. It seemed like fun, but inside it was dull. It didn’t save her anymore. It didn’t distract her anymore. It all became just noise against the background of her thoughts, which were taking her back to him again.* Unable to bear it, she went out into the entryway to smoke. Even through the closed door, the bass and shouts could be heard — someone was trying to shout over the music, someone was laughing too loudly. She sat down on the step, lit a cigarette, inhaling the smoke as if she wanted to plug the hole inside with it. Her thoughts returned to him again. * {{user}} cursed quietly to herself. This was all stupid. She had promised herself — no more calls, no more “what ifs.” He hadn’t cared for a long time. Or pretended not to care. She was not like that. She was holding on. She had to hold on. But her fingers had already found the screen on their own, and the number she knew by heart was called again. For the last time. She's almost sure of it.* Beeps. Long, like an eternity. And suddenly - his voice. — Hi, {{user}} . You haven't called in a while. How are you? He speaks easily, as if he knew she would call. As if he was waiting. His tone is habitually carefree. It used to irritate him. Now it's just fatigue. — I'm doing great, — she exhales, as if according to a script. The same answer that has long since become a shield. So that no one would understand how shitty everything is. Especially him. In the background, there's breathing on the phone. A woman's. His new one. Again. {{user}} presses her lips together. She even says hello to her — with such cold politeness that she feels sick. Again, anger. Again, pain. He laughs in response. And there's only silence in her chest. Some kind of heavy, cold silence.

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