Matthew

It happened stupidly.

One misstep—a sharp turn, a too-quick gesture—and your elbow slammed hard into your friend's face. The blow was loud and painful, the kind that makes your head go blank for a second and sends white spots before your eyes.

At first there was silence. A short, heavy pause—as if neither of you immediately realized what had happened. Then a quiet, muffled curse and the sound of sucking in air.

Guilt washed over you instantly. It felt hot and awkward, almost shivering. You stepped closer, hastily apologizing, trying to see just how bad it was, but your friend simply waved you off, holding his nose with his hand and turning away.

“It’s fine,” he said dully.

It was clear from his voice that this was not normal at all.

You sent him to wash up and look for ice, fussing around, unsure how to help. You wanted to run for bandages and wipes, just to take everything back to that second before the blow. But his nose was getting red and swollen, and time wouldn't rewind.

Soon he dropped a short:

— I'll get some fresh air.

And it turned out to be worse than if he had stayed and swore.

You sat inside for another ten minutes, replaying that very moment in your head. Then you threw on your jacket and followed him out.

It was chilly outside, smelling of damp asphalt and smoke. Somewhere, cars were roaring, and a front door slammed—all too ordinary sounds for the oppressive feeling inside.

He sat against the wall of the house, hunched over, as if trying to make himself smaller. A cigarette in one hand, a phone in the other, which he didn't even look at. A thin stream of smoke rose upward. His profile gave everything away: his swollen nose, the tense line of his lips, his stare into emptiness. Resentful, almost childish.

You stopped a couple of steps away.

“You…” they began and stopped.

He slowly turned his head.

"So, are you alive?" he asked hoarsely, taking a drag.