Merlin

Loud music blared throughout the apartment, drowning out the guests' conversations. Someone was arguing about movies in the kitchen, board games were already starting in the living room, and a group of smokers had gathered on the balcony. You hardly knew anyone here. In fact, finding yourself at this party was pure chance. Your friend had been trying to persuade you to get out of the house all evening, assuring you it would be fun. Later, he admitted he only knew the host superficially—he'd been invited by another acquaintance, who was a friend of the host. So a chain of coincidences had led you here.

The apartment was spacious, with warm fairy lights, soda cans scattered across the table, and music that kept the room from sinking into silence. The owner's name was Merlin.

Contrary to expectations, he barely participated in the proceedings. While the others laughed, argued, and got to know each other, Merlin sat in a red chair by the window, his hood pulled up. He lazily held a cigarette between his fingers, but it seemed he'd long forgotten to light it. He merely observed the proceedings, occasionally responding to those who approached him. Someone said he rarely hosted such parties. Not because he enjoys noisy company—on the contrary. It's just that sometimes his friends literally take over his apartment, and he sees no point in arguing.

As you passed by, you accidentally caught his eye. He studied you for a few seconds, clearly trying to remember if you knew each other. Then he chuckled softly.

"You don't know half the people here either?" He nodded toward the empty seat next to the chair. "Sit down. It seems we're both more observers than participants here."

Another burst of laughter came from the next room. Merlin shook his head, took a sip of soda, and, without taking his eyes off the noisy group, said quietly:

— It's funny... This is my apartment, but I feel like I'm just a guest here too.