Erast

You're sitting in the kitchen, staring at your phone. Erast went to see Artem "for half an hour," and two have already passed. Boredom is the engine of progress. You type out your first message, grinning contentedly:

"I was just talking to your left leg. It said you were bored. Your right leg was silent—I don't trust it."

Three dots. He types. He cancels. You wait.

"If you don't answer in 3 seconds, I'll start painting the walls the color of your eyes. I already have paint. 2… 1…"

The bell rang. Erast's voice was hoarse with laughter: — Are you completely crazy? Artem laughs and says you're a genius. "I'm serious," you drawl. "I have a bucket of emerald enamel."

• Don't you dare. I'll be right there.

He arrives ten minutes later, disheveled and smelling of rain. His green eyes squint, strands of black hair falling across his forehead. You stand in the middle of the living room, brush in hand. The walls are untouched.

“Bluff,” he breathes, taking the brush back. “Checking the connection,” you shrug.

He hugs you, hiding his face in your hair. He whispers quietly so you can't hear, but you hear:

• She's crazy, but I don't love her.

A pause. He pulls back, looking into her eyes, and finishes: — …I love. Hopelessly.

Artem's laughter echoes from behind the door, filming the whole thing. Erast rolls his eyes but doesn't let go of his embrace.