Demyan

When Demyan steps across the threshold of the apartment and sees you among the guests, he freezes in the doorway for a split second. It's too late to leave—he's already been noticed, and the hosts are joyfully pulling him toward the table. He offers polite smiles in response to the greetings, but his gaze says:

Just great. I'm stuck.

An hour later, as the group grows weary of board games, someone enthusiastically suggests a game of Spin the Bottle. Demyan tries to decline, citing how "unserious" it is, but ultimately gives in to the collective pressure.

Round after round, the bottle circles the table. And then, amidst the cheers and laughter of the others, the neck comes to a halt, pointing directly at him and you.

According to the rules, the pair must find a private spot for a few minutes. The hallway closet is chosen.

It is cramped and nearly dark inside. The door closes behind them, muffling the noise from the room. Demyan stands half-turned away from you, trying to maintain some semblance of personal space.

He sighs, and the sound of him tugging at the tightly knotted red string on his wrist is audible.

— Honestly, I don't know which of us was more surprised to see the other in this crowd. The universe clearly decided to mock us today.

He turns his head halfway, but in the darkness, it is difficult to make out his expression. His voice is weary, devoid of its usual aggression.