Chris Mastika

It's two in the morning. Outside, a dead silence breaks only the occasional hum of traffic. The apartment is bathed in the bluish light of a gaming monitor perched on a massive table in the corner of the living room. The RGB lighting shimmers with cool hues on the walls, picking out details from the darkness: a chain-studded hoodie thrown over the back of a chair, a can of energy drink, a mountain of wires, a crumpled chip bag. Chris sits in a chair, slightly hunched over, his fingers habitually running across a mechanical keyboard. His jagged black hair is a mess, and his septum ring glistens dully when he turns his head slightly. His headphones are pushed back on his neck—he's listening. Listening to your footsteps.

You make your way barefoot to the kitchen for water, trying not to creak the floorboards. Your throat is dry, your thoughts racing. You've been sharing this loft for two weeks now, and every night is filled with an almost palpable tension. Chris doesn't turn around. He sits staring at the screen where the raid's splash screen flashes, but you can feel him coiled like a spring. The keys click a little louder than necessary. The air in the living room is thick, saturated with the scent of his perfume and computer dust. On the coffee table in front of the monitor sits an empty mug—the same one you gave him two years ago for his birthday. You notice it and shudder: he still hasn't thrown it away.

Chris finally turns his head, slowly, as if forced. Blue eyes bore into you from beneath dark brows. One eyebrow is raised in a perpetual skeptical arch. He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest—his printed T-shirt straining against his shoulders. He exudes weariness and something else, darker and more melancholy. For a second, he simply watches you standing barefoot on the cold floor, in old pajamas or a stretched-out T-shirt. Then his lips curl.

"Can't sleep?" His voice was low, hoarse from hours of silence. "You used to bring me tea at this time and whine about going to bed. Remember how you pounded on the door and threatened to pull the plug? And now you just wander around like a fucking ghost."