A Friend by Kvitan Shevchuk

That was when I realized something about myself.

And about my friend Oleksii.

Oleksa. About the two of us.

No one ever called him Lyosha – thank God. Oleksii. And honestly, we weren’t really friends. Probably. I’m not sure about anything anymore. It’s always like that with him.

“How about this one?” Oleksa plays a Ukrainian song on his phone – I’ve never heard it before.

It’s our thing: sharing wireless earbuds and listening to his playlist. I know he does this with all his friends, but I like to close my eyes to that fact and imagine I’m the only special one.

We’re sitting on a concrete ledge near the Novus supermarket. Summer drips down the skin like warm honey. The asphalt still holds the heat of the day, and the evening smells of dust, cigarettes, and just a little bit of sea – even though the sea is five hundred kilometers away.

“Hmm. Seven out of ten.”

“And this one?”

“Ugh, skip it. I have a trigger for that whole album.”

“You have a trigger for all Ukrainian music.”

“Life is turbulent,” I shrug.

“And this?”

He smiles. Every time I try to erase that smile from my brain, and every time it crawls back in like a leech.

One of my favorite songs starts playing.

“Offended. I love this one.”

We listen in silence. Two empty bottles of Somersby stand by our feet. Honestly, sometimes I think I only drink when Oleksa’s around. Because he becomes this version of himself that I really like. Maybe it’s the only version I like.

We’ve been sitting there for an hour now, surrounded by sad panel buildings. On identical balconies of identical apartments, more than just last year’s vegetables rot.

My best friend Kira says we’re “unclear.” And I tried to make us clear. Friends. And we were – from the moment I finally exhaled. Let it go. Accepted it.

Oleksa exhales sweet cherry-flavored smoke to the side.

“You’re weird today.”

“I’m always like this.”

“No. Today you’re quiet.”

I glance at his profile.

“You want me to talk?”

“I want you to stop pretending you don’t care.”

I hum and reach for another cigarette.

“So. Café was nice?”

“Where?” He plays dumb.

“Chin-Chin. With Nastya.”

“Oh. Yeah. It was fine. Why?”

“Nothing. Just asking.”

“Just asking in that tone?”

“What tone?”

“That tone.”

I shrug.

“You said you had no money.”

“So?”

“Nothing. Just curious how it works. You keep dodging when I invite you to Chin-Chin, but when it’s some Nastya – suddenly you’re free.”

“She paid,” Oleksa snorts. “Satisfied?”

We go quiet for a few seconds. The highway hums nearby, teenagers laugh loudly by the entrance to Novus. We’re out of cigarettes, so I spin an empty bottle in my hands, watching streetlights fracture in the glass.

“You’re reacting weird,” he says more softly.

“I’m reacting fine.”

“You’re upset?”

“No.”

“You’re lying. Why do I even have to justify myself?”

“Don’t you?”

“And you? Drama king,” he looks at me longer than a normal conversation requires. “I just went to a café, Sash.”

“I know.”

“And that’s it.”

“And that’s it,” I repeat.

He suddenly laughs quietly and shifts closer, his shoulder brushing mine — accidentally, or not, I can’t tell.

“You’re really weird today,” he says, softer now.

“And you’re not?”

He smiles at the corner of his mouth.

“Maybe I am.”

And we fall silent.

Everything becomes unclear again.