My childhood flowed in an atmosphere of music, books, and artistic souls - those who created, fashioned, and invented games with total abandon, living entirely by their imagination. I grew up within a cocoon of sweet dreams born of constant reading; it trained me to be inquisitive, to walk along the very edge of the abyss while avoiding danger with incredible innocence. Artistic pursuits - dance, painting, sculpture, and decorative arts - filled my days.

  My path eventually led me to a small rented apartment in the "Zhuldyz" micro-district. It was one of those high-rise buildings with thin walls where Anzhelica once dwelled and where Alexander still lives.

  The apartment consisted of two rooms and a kitchen. The furniture included only the essentials: beds, tables, chairs, and a wooden étagère.

  The three of us settled around an old round table in his small but clean kitchen, where the light grey walls created a cozy feel. A few pots, mismatched dishes from a flea market, and worn-out shirts used as towels filled the space. No unwashed plates could be seen anywhere; a monastic atmosphere of cleanliness prevailed.

  It felt like a housewarming of sorts. Alexander uncorked a bottle of wine, while Yuri set about slicing vegetables.

  “You, Dilyar, are the first woman with whom I can be completely frank!” Alexander said, pouring the wine into our glasses.

  “Come on, laugh, Dilyara!” Yuri interjected. “Pika loves it when you smile.”

  At the sound of a notification, the young man grabbed his phone, saw a new message from Anzhelica, and read it aloud. It was a brief, mad, and incoherent text, through which a desperate cry of love seemed to tear its way.

  “Such aphorisms usually grind everything to dust,” I thought. The feeling grew that this was the exact moment to show him the real Anzhelica - the one only I had seen.

  Gathering courage and determination, I told him the story about the train tickets.

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  Alexander went to the sink and turned on the water, as if trying to hide his face. Then he continued:

  “I don't find her disgusting at all, nor do I despise her. I understand what we gave each other. I know very well that when she returns…” He paused, then added: “She is loathsome to me. And I don’t want to talk about this anymore!”

  “Loathsome?” I asked, seeking clarification.

  “Yes, I hate her,” he said, approaching the table. “I’ve realized how she used me, how she deceived me. If Anzhelica returns, she will set us against each other. I am afraid of that. Our friendship is something she can never understand. She will hate us and fight us with her own weapons,” Alexander continued, as if my voice hadn't reached him.

  “But what will she use against us, if we understand each other so well?”

  “Lies,” he replied. “It has happened many times already.”

  For the first time, tears appeared in his eyes. Goosebumps immediately prickled my skin, and a sense of awkwardness followed. Our mutual understanding was clear; we both knew Anzhelica’s power over us and our friendship. Once he felt that I trusted him deeply, he spoke:

  “How you penetrate into everything, Dilyar; how wise you are.” He wiped the tears away.

  “Anzhelica is depraved, Pika,” Yuri interjected. “She is poison to you. Do you want my help to drag her back to Almaty?”

  He winced. “Don’t ask me, Malyga! Don’t ask me that!” His expression was filled with agony.

  Dostoevsky was truly a fateful author for Alexander and Anzhelica. From the very first time I saw them together, the impression was that they lived in his climate: one of fever, scandals, and extremes. They played the roles of his characters. Today, however, he seemed to be only Alexander and no one else.

  “You know, I don't know how to express softness,” the young man said thoughtfully. “Only extremes. Only passion and pressure.”

  And then he added: “It is clear to me that I am, of course, a loser.”

  “But I don’t want you to be one. I won't allow it. I want you to live and enjoy life.” A smile followed my words, intended to offer him some calm and support.

  An awkwardness always takes hold of me when I see someone in deep suffering; my instinct is to try and ease their pain. It is a relief to see the storm weaken, the caustic acid dissolve, and that terrible poison lose its power. Fulfilling the wishes of others and creating magic feels like a necessity, and I strain with all my might to perform these small miracles.

  “To be honest with myself, I feel better without Anzhelica,” Alexander answered with a heavy sigh. “My love for her is stronger then. When she is near, her presence oppresses me; I get the blues and fall into utter hopelessness.”

  It was perfectly clear that he was exhausted by their relationship and the mysteries Anzhelica so carefully constructed.