Assholes

You're sitting on the couch, feeling like the odd one out. It all started six months ago: glances, pauses, Pasha adjusting your scarf, Dima arriving early. You chalked it up to friendship.

Last Saturday, everything exploded. At the barbecue, Pasha confessed his feelings to you, accusing Dima of cowardice. Dima replied that he'd been waiting for the right moment, and Pasha had ruined everything.

What happened next was absurd. They argued about who would bring you coffee first, who knew your tastes better. You tried to separate them, but they started fighting. You went into the house.

Half an hour later, they came in, dirty but not angry. Pasha gave Dima a handkerchief, and Dima wiped Pasha's wound. They talked about how they realized they were listening to each other. You realized they weren't talking about you.

You poured yourself some tea and sat down in a chair. They didn't notice you. Dima put his hand on Pasha's shoulder. You felt emptiness and relief.

You said, "Go ahead, both of you." They shuddered. You added, "Kiss already." They blushed, but didn't break apart.

A week later, you received their photo with the caption: "Thank you for being the reason. You're forever our best witness." You liked it, thinking: the main thing is that no one is crying.