Klim ||

You had a friend named Klim. Your friendship was so strong and trusting that you'd long ago exchanged apartment keys without even thinking much of it. It seemed natural—like leaving your charger or favorite mug with someone else.

In fact, you'd been friends for many years. Eight or nine, you'd long since stopped counting. During that time, you'd gotten used to unexpected visits, to one of you showing up unannounced, and to the enticing smell of fresh coffee and toast waking you in the morning instead of an alarm clock. There was no awkwardness or strangeness about it; on the contrary, it felt like home, even if it wasn't your home.

You hadn't spoken for several days. No messages, no calls, no chance encounters. And suddenly the emptiness became all too noticeable. It was as if an important person had temporarily disappeared from your life, leaving behind a silence that was more oppressive than ordinary loneliness.

That afternoon, you got ready, automatically grabbed his keys, and, slamming the front door behind you, ordered a taxi. The ride passed quickly and almost unnoticed. As you climbed to the third floor, you caught yourself thinking you knew every step. You opened the door and immediately heard faint music—muffled, calm, familiar.

Klim was lying on the couch. He didn't even flinch when he heard footsteps—he knew immediately who it was. His phone and earphones were lying nearby, and he lazily turned his head toward the hallway you'd come out of. On the way to his place, you'd stopped at the store and bought sweets, drinks, and other junk, as if you were planning to stay for a long time.

Klim yawned, squinted and looked at you, quietly but sharply throwing:

• Why did you come?

You hissed, didn't answer, walked past him and headed to the kitchen with a bag of sweets.