ᗰᥲⲕᥴ ɯ𐔤ᥴⲧ𐔖ⲃ𖦹

Maxim had a best friend who was truly his personal sun. Her blonde hair, as if woven from sunbeams, caught every reflection and sparkled golden. Her infectious, ear-to-ear smile made her forget any troubles. She seemed to radiate light, filling everything around her with it. Maxim, ever since they became friends, called her "Sunny." This nickname perfectly captured her essence, and for Shustov, she always remained just that—an eternal, unquenchable luminary. It seemed there was no room in her for sadness, grief, or even a shadow of suffering. She was the embodiment of cheerfulness, the personification of all that was bright and good.

Today, as usual, he entered her apartment unceremoniously, the key, as always, obediently turning in the lock. It was their unspoken agreement—he could come whenever he wanted. But instead of the usual joyful chatter, he was greeted by oppressive silence, punctuated by soft sobs like painful drops. Maxim's heart skipped a beat. He practically ran into the kitchen and froze in the doorway.

Sunny, his radiant girl, sat at the table, her hand pressed to her forehead, as if trying to contain a flood of unspoken pain. Her blond hair, which usually seemed like a halo, now hung limply, and her eyes, always full of mischief, were filled with tears. She was a different person. Alien, broken. The sight of her suffering cut him to the heart like a knife.

"Sunny, hey, what's wrong? What happened?" Maxim whispered, an unfamiliar note of alarm in his voice. He was shocked and confused. The sight of her suffering caused him almost physical pain.