Just a friend

Maxim stood by the window of his one-room apartment, looking at the wet asphalt. The rain had just stopped, leaving long, transparent streaks on the glass, like tears. The city outside breathed with damp steam, and in that breath, there was something anxious, unfinished. He was smoking, even though he had promised himself to quit six months ago. Smoke spread through the room, mixing with the smell of old coffee and dust.

The phone on the table rang. The screen lit up with a familiar name: Lera.

— Hi! Can you pick me up in an hour? I want to go to that new bar on the embankment," her voice chimed, as it always did when she needed something from him. Not a request—a statement of fact. She knew he would come.

She knew it better than he did himself.

Maxim looked at the phone, then at the window, then back at the phone. His throat went dry. He could have said "no." He could have said he was busy. That he was tired. That he had his own life, after all. But instead, he simply replied:

— Okay.

An hour later, he was already standing by her entrance. An ordinary gray building on the outskirts of the center, with peeling paint on the walls and graffiti by the entrance. A red bicycle was leaning against the wall, worn from time and endless rearrangements by residents who found it in the way. Maxim looked at this bicycle and thought that he was just like it—leaning against her life, getting underfoot, but still remaining.

Lera burst out of the entrance, radiant, in a short dress and a light leather jacket. Her hair was loose, her lips bright red. She always looked as if she were going on a date. Just not with him.

— Hi, sunshine!" she plopped into the passenger seat, and the scent of her perfume—citrus and jasmine—instantly filled the car. "There'll be someone interesting there.

Maxim started the car. He didn't ask who exactly. He didn't want to know. But he knew he would find out anyway.

They drove in silence. Lera scrolled through her phone, occasionally giggling at something but not sharing. Maxim watched the road and felt the familiar, dull irritation slowly growing inside him. He wanted to say something. Anything. But the words got stuck somewhere between his chest and his throat.

— You know," she suddenly said, without looking up from the screen, "I have this feeling that you're the only person who truly understands me.

He gripped the steering wheel tighter.

— Really?

— Mhm. With everyone else, I play games. But with you—I don't. You're like... I don't know. Like home.

Home. Maxim smirked. Yes, home. Warm, reliable, boring. Where you return when it's cold. But where you don't want to stay.

The bar was called "The Wave." It was stylish, with low lighting, brick walls, and a dark wood bar counter polished to a shine. Jazz was playing—something slow, enveloping. Lera immediately led him to a sofa in the corner where a burly guy in a checkered shirt was sitting. Broad shoulders, stubble, a confident smile.

— This is Stepan, the owner," she introduced him, and her eyes sparkled with a familiar excitement to Maxim. The kind she never gave him.

— Heard about you," Stepan said with a smile. "Lera's told me a lot.

— Hope nothing bad," Maxim tried to joke, but his voice sounded strained.

— Only good things," Stepan smirked and nodded toward the sofa. "Have a seat.

They sat down. Lera took off her shoes and put her feet up on the ottoman in front of Stepan, without even asking permission. It was so natural for her—to occupy space, demand attention, receive it.

— My feet are just killing me today," she said plaintively, with the childish tone she used when she wanted to get something.

Stepan grinned.

— I'll fix that right now.

Maxim took a sip of whiskey. It burned his throat, but the heat inside didn't subside. He watched as Stepan's fingers continued their work, as Lera smiled with her eyes closed, as her fingers curled slightly with pleasure. He watched—and hated himself for not being able to look away.

Stepan was telling something about the bar, about business, about the new menu. Lera nodded, laughed, interjected. Maxim sat and stayed silent. It was as if he weren't in the room. He was a decoration. A witness.

An hour later, they left. Stepan hugged Lera goodbye—long, tight, with his hand on the small of her back.

— Come again," he said to her, looking into her eyes.

— Definitely," she replied, and her voice held a promise.

A heavy silence hung in the car. Maxim started the engine, drove onto the embankment. The city lights reflected in the black water. Beautiful. Cold. Lonely.

— Lera," he finally said, looking at the road. His voice sounded muffled, as if from underwater. "How long can this go on?

— What exactly?" she took out her phone, started typing something.

— This. Us. We spend every day together. I drive you, listen to you, support you. And what am I to you? A chauffeur? A therapist? A friend?

She looked up from the screen. There was genuine confusion in her eyes.

— You're my best friend, Max. I don't want to lose you. If we start dating, we'll ruin all this. We wouldn't last a month.

— Why?" he abruptly pulled over to the side of the road, turned off the engine. His hands were shaking. "Why, Lera? Why not me?

She sighed, looked away. She was silent for a long time. A car passed outside the window, flooding the interior with headlights, then it was dark again.

— Because you don't excite me, Max," she said quietly but firmly. "You're too... proper. Too safe. Any other guy in your place would have tried to take what he wants long ago. But you just watch. You wait for permission. And it won't come.

He felt a burning blush spread across his face. The word "weak" hung in the air, unspoken but clear, like a slap.

Something inside him clicked.

He reached for her, grabbed her shoulders, and tried to kiss her. It was awkward, abrupt, desperate. She sharply pushed him away, with fear and disgust in her eyes.

— What are you doing?! Snap out of it!

— But you said it yourself!

— I said what would have been if you were different from the start! But now you just look pathetic. The moment's gone, Max. Forever.

She grabbed her bag, flung the door open.

— Don't call me anymore.

The door slammed. He sat and watched as she entered her building without looking back. Then he started the car and drove home. The whole way, he didn't think about anything. Just drove. Automatically. Like a robot.

At home, he lay on the bed, fully dressed, and stared at the ceiling. The ceiling was white, with a crack in the corner. He stared at that crack until morning.

A month later

A month passed. They didn't communicate. Maxim unfriended her, removed the photos, blocked her number. Tried to forget. Didn't work.

He downloaded a dating app. Swiped through profiles in the evenings, lying on the couch with a beer. The girls were pretty, smiling, with selfies against the backdrop of the sea and mountains. But they all seemed the same. Cardboard.

Then he saw Katya.

She was different. No bright makeup, no provocative poses. In the photo, she was standing in a park, in a simple sweater, with a shy smile. There was a certain openness in her eyes. Naivety.

They texted for a week. Then he invited her to dinner.

They met at a small cafe on the outskirts. She arrived early, sitting at a table by the window, nervously fidgeting with a napkin. When he entered, she jumped up, smiled widely.

— Hi! I was starting to think you wouldn't come.

— Why wouldn't I come?

— Well... I don't know. I was just nervous.

They ordered pasta and wine. Talked about trivial things—work, the weather, favorite movies. Katya laughed at his jokes, listened attentively, asked questions. She was simple. Understandable. Safe.

Maxim looked at her and saw Lera. Not the one she was now, but the lost one from the past. The one who hadn't yet learned to manipulate. The one who could still be real.

After dinner, he offered to drive her home. She lived on the outskirts, in an area of panel high-rises. He drove and looked at her hands folded on her lap. At the naive makeup. At how she looked out the window and smiled at something of her own.

He stopped the car by her building. It was a dark parking lot between garages, a streetlight flickered, glowing with a dim orange light and then going out. Emptiness all around.

— Well, thanks for the evening," Katya said quietly and reached for the door handle. "I really enjoyed it.

Lera's words flashed through Maxim's head. "Any other guy in your place would have tried to take what he wants long ago."

A lump in his throat. Resentment. Anger. A desire to prove something.

— Wait," he said, and his own voice sounded foreign, muffled to him. "Let's sit a little longer.

She turned her face to him. In the semi-darkness, he could only see a vague oval and the gleam of her eyes.

— Why?" she asked naively, and there was neither fear nor understanding in her voice. Just a question.

He didn't answer. Reached for her, put his hand on her shoulder. She froze.

— Max, what are you doing?

— Nothing. Just... I don't want you to leave.

He pulled her toward him, kissed her. She didn't resist immediately—more like she was bewildered. But a second later, she came to her senses and said.

— Stop. Stop! I need to go.

— I didn't invite you just for dinner," Maxim said with chilling calm. He took her hand and placed it on his crotch. The girl froze, as if hypnotized by a boa constrictor. A second of inaction, and her hand slowly moved, beginning to caress the bulge in his pants.

— Is this what you want?" she whispered.

— Yes, keep going," said Maxim, leaning back in the seat.

— Are you sure? There's no going back," Katya informed him, as if reading his thoughts.

He punched the steering wheel. Then again. And again.

— What am I doing?

Morning

In the morning, Katya called him.

Maxim lay in bed, unable to get up. His head was splitting. He looked at the screen—Katya's name glowed on the display. He didn't want to answer. But his hand reached out on its own.

— Hi," he said hoarsely.

— Hi," her voice was quiet but firm. "Listen, I wanted to say... about yesterday. I thought about it. Maybe I overreacted. I just didn't expect it. But I like you. Really. Maybe we could try? Meet again?

Maxim was silent.

— Max? Are you there?

— Yes. I'm here.

— So what do you think?

He closed his eyes. Saw Lera. Her smile. Her hand on Stepan's shoulder. Heard her words: "You don't excite me."

Then he saw Katya. Her shy smile. Her frightened eyes last night.

He thought about who he had been. And who he had become. And who he wanted to be.

— Katya," he said slowly, "you're a good person. Really. But I'm not ready. I'm sorry.

— Not ready? Just like that? Did what you wanted and that's it? Who do you think I am?

— You're the one who made me realize I don't want to be the old me. And yes. I'm not ready.

She was silent.

— I see. Well... good luck then.

— You too.

He hung up.

Got up. Went to the window. Outside was a gray day, a drizzle falling. The city breathed.

Maxim took out his phone, unblocked Lera's contact. Typed a message: "Hi. How are you?"

Looked at the screen.

Deleted it.

Put the phone on the table.

Poured himself some coffee. Sat by the window. Lit a cigarette.

Smoke spread through the room. Outside, it was raining.

And for the first time in a long time, Maxim wasn't waiting for anyone to call him.