Alice

Summer. You and Max are twelve. You're on "your" tree by the old quarry, legs dangling over the water reflecting a sky the color of orange Fanta.

"Look," you nod at a cloud, "looks like the dragon from 'Eternal Dawn'." Max, chewing on a blade of grass, squints. "Well… At best, a mentally challenged one. Look at his face." You both explode with laughter until you tumble from the branch into the water, and the laughter turns into a spray of splashes. In that moment, the world was simple. Too simple. But it couldn't last forever...

Fourteen. Max got a diagnosis - "Emotional Reality Immunodeficiency". He missed two months of school. You came over every day after classes. His room became your fortress, the game your refuge. One day, after a particularly rough procedure, he lay pale, with dark circles under his eyes, silently staring at the ceiling. "It's like playing on 'Impossible' difficulty with Iron Will," he rasped out, not looking at you. You couldn't find the words. Instead, you played a recording on your phone from one of your guild raids, where his voice, full of fervor, commanded: "Potion on the tank! Everyone on the boss! We can do this!" At first, Max didn't move. Then, the corner of his mouth twitched. He turned his head. "Sounds… like an idiot." "But confident," you countered. He gave a weak smile. It wasn't a victory. It was a truce with despair. In that moment, you swore to yourself (though you never put it into words) — you would never leave him alone in his battles.

Sixteen. The years added pixels to the screen and worries to parents' voices, but didn't change the core. Friday night. Your voice in the headset is hoarse with tension: "Max, heal! HEAL ME, DAMN IT!" On screen, your character is dodging under a barrage of boss attacks with almost zero HP. "Easy, cap," comes his calm, focused voice. "Fall back, now." Your character jumps back, and the next second the area is flooded with Max's healing aura. The party launches a counterattack and with a fresh set of buffs and regen, you win. "See?" Max says, and you can hear his quiet smile. "No panic. We're a team."

Team. That word meant everything. Until that day.

You remember that moment in detail, like a prologue to nightmare on repeat. Evening, a vacant lot, an abandoned building, music, the buzz of voices. You and Max, as usual, was leaning against a wall with a can of cola, observing. And then she appeared. Alice. In a dress the color of ripe raspberries. Her laughter cut through the music. You saw how Max's gaze found her and… stuck. You didn't think much of it; he often stared at pretty girls, but somewhere deep down, a seed of anxiety took root.

A week later, everything changed. "Sorry, can't make it tonight," his Discord message came at nine on a Saturday. "Stuff." "What stuff?" you typed, smiling. No reply for three hours. Then: "Just stuff."

His replies became monosyllabic. "Yes," "No," "Later." His character in 'Dawn' froze in the capital city, last online three days ago — logged in for ten minutes. Your calls went to voicemail.

"Max, what's wrong with you?" you barged into his house. He was sitting on his bed, staring at his phone. A pale shadow of a smile was on his face. "It's all good. Just… I think I have a girlfriend." "Seriously? Who? That one, Alice?" He nodded, not looking up from the screen. "She's… she's incredible. I'm so happy." But you didn't recognize happiness in his voice. What you heard was a feverish, almost hysterical elation. "Be careful with her, Max, I don't like this." "You're just jealous, you don't have anyone." "Max, screw you… As if I'd want…"

Then the elation morphed into something else. He started disappearing for whole days. "Hanging out," he'd text. His parents just shrugged.

The last time you saw him was two weeks before "the day." You caught him on his way home, he had dark circles under his eyes. "Max, talk to me. What's going on?" He pulled away, his gaze empty and evasive. "Nothing. Everything's fine. Just drop it, okay?"

After that, he stopped opening the door. Stopped replying to messages.

And then it came. A message in the general game chat. From him. "Thanks for everything."

At first, you didn't understand. Then you felt an icy wave rise from your heels to the crown of your head. You called. Once, twice, ten times. Silence. Then you called his home phone. His mother answered. And her voice… it wasn't a voice, but a raw, ragged wound from which a single word tore free: "He..."

The phone slipped from your fingers. You heard the dull thud of plastic hitting the floor, but the sound was distant, like from another dimension. Inside, everything snapped. You collapsed to your knees, clutching your head. What came out of your throat wasn't a scream, but an animalistic, ragged groan. "No. No, no, no, no." You clenched your fists until your knuckles went numb. Tears streamed down your face, mixing with saliva; you choked on them, trying to breathe. "I saw it! I knew! Why didn't I drag him out by the scruff of his neck?! Why didn't I stop him?! I'm a traitor! I'm scum!" The rage at yourself was so all-consuming you wanted to tear your own skin off. Then came the helplessness. You just lay on the floor, shaking with silent sobs until the world dissolved into a grey, airless void.

The funeral was on a grey, drizzling day. The ground was soggy, mud clinging to shoes. People in black spoke quiet, meaningless words. His parents looked like shadows. You stood there, curled in on yourself, unable to lift your eyes to the coffin. Your gaze mechanically scanned the crowd, familiar and unfamiliar faces. You looked for copper hair. You looked for any hint of her presence. She wasn't there. Of course she wasn't. That same evening, her stories had a video from some barbecue party, laughter, music. As if nothing had happened.

That was the final straw. Grief and guilt crystallized into a cold, hard fury. She knew. She was the cause. And she bore no responsibility. Felt not a gram of pain.

Your rage became methodical. You tracked her down. Found her address. Found out her parents worked late on Wednesdays. You planned every step. Don't threaten. Don't yell right away. Get inside. Make her face the truth. Ask her how she could. Get some admission, some remorse, a crack in her perfect world. And if not… your plan didn't go beyond that "if not." In your pocket, ready, was a screenshot of Max's last message.

And now you stand at her door. Your heart hammers so hard it rings in your ears. You take a deep breath, exhale a cloud of vapor. Ring the bell.

The door opens. She's in shorts and a loose t-shirt, one wireless earbud in. A look of mild irritation is on her face.

"Yeah?" Her gaze slides over you without recognition. "Alice. We need to talk." "Oh," she realizes. The irritation shifts to weary acquiescence. She silently steps aside, letting you pass.

You cross the threshold, and the door clicks shut behind you. The hallway smells of expensive fabric softener and her perfume. You turn to her, following your plan: calm, but firm.

"We need to talk about Max." She raises an eyebrow for a moment, then pretends to remember. "Right, I was expecting something like this… So?" Her tone is like a slap. Your plan cracks; images from the last days flood over you. "He killed himself." "And?" She removes the earbud, not to hear better, but with the air of someone being distracted from something important. "That's not my fault. I didn't make him do anything." "Because of you! You broke him!" Your voice cracks, cold fury breaking through. "He was alive until he met you! You used him up and threw him away like a used tissue!" Alice sighs, rolling her eyes with such exaggerated suffering, as if you're reading her bad poetry. "You don't get it. He latched onto me. I never promised him anything, and when he finally got on my nerves, I said 'it's over,' clear and simple. His over-the-top reaction is his problem. I wasn't obligated to carry him just because he had some… feelings."

She takes a step closer, her green eyes gleaming coldly. A thin, mocking smirk plays on her lips. She looks you up and down — your worn-out jacket, your face twisted with pain and anger. "If it was just that, he wouldn't have freaked out so much! You played with him and then smashed his face into the pavement! I saw him, this wasn't just a broken heart, it was playing with his life! Do you even have a drop of conscience or compassion? Or did you just erase him from your mind the second you dumped him?"

"You're demanding tears and remorse from me now? For what? For not wanting to waste my life, my energy, my youth on cleaning up someone else's emotional crisis and listening to their delusions? I have a right to lightness and happiness. His drowning ego is his problem; I'm not his nanny." Her gaze grows darker, more irritated, then more confident. "Wasn't it you, as his friend, who was supposed to talk sense into him? Wasn't it you who should have watched his state and stopped him? You call yourself a friend, but in reality, you're just looking for someone to blame for your own negligence. Stop whining, go home and cry it out. I can't help you."