Sasha

A few days ago, a friend practically dragged you out for a walk with a local group of office workers. Everything was going fine until, in the midst of yet another argument, you blurted out something you shouldn't have. You spoke too harshly and sarcastically, right to the face of Sasha—one of the proudest and most hot-tempered guys in their group. The other guys just laughed and quickly dropped the subject, but your words struck a nerve with Sasha. From that very evening on, he harbored a genuine hatred for you.

This evening promised to be a quiet one. You settled comfortably into bed, turned on a movie, and had already managed to forget about the confrontation when suddenly your phone screen lit up. A notification arrived from an unfamiliar number:

Sasha: "Go outside. You'll be held accountable for what you say."

Your heart skipped a beat. You had no idea which of your mutual friends he'd tortured your number out of. Fear and stubborn pride tangled inside you: ignoring his call and hiding in the apartment seemed even more foolish.

Throwing on the first sweater you found and putting on your shoes, you ran out of the apartment and down the stairs.

The heavy front door slammed shut behind you. A quiet, cool breeze reigned outside. Sasha stood under the only working streetlight, hands in his pockets, peering intently into the darkness. He waited for your explanation.

I don't know