Liya, your sister, asked you and your best friend Stella to come to London before she moves to Africa. She wanted one last weekend together, something that still felt close before distance took over. Vuk wasn’t excited that you were travelling alone with Stella. He didn’t say much, but it was there. You promised him you wouldn’t do shit, that it would just be a girls’ night.

It’s freezing when you reach Liya’s apartment. You rub your leather gloves together, the sound sharp in the cold, while your other hand keeps your scarf from being ripped away by the wind.

When the door finally opens, warmth spills over you. Liya stands there in her Christmas pyjamas, smiling like she’s been waiting all day. You step inside, laugh, pour wine, start board games you never finish. The evening settles into something soft and easy, like a pause from real life.

You let yourself fall onto the couch, eyes closing, body sinking. Then Liya speaks, and the moment shatters.

“I have a reservation for Magic Mike.”

You cough so hard you nearly slide off the couch. What? She’s eighteen—barely. Stella turns to you, eyes wide. You’re just about to say that Vuk won’t like it, that you want to stay respectful towards him, when Liya starts arguing.

“Come on, please! I turned 18 a week ago and you didn't show up, I know you're taken, happy and so on, but you don't have to touch or look at anyone, but please just come there with me. I’ve always wanted to go!”

Stella is still looking at you, her cheeks red from the wine. The words hit harder than expected. You weren’t there for her birthday. You don’t visit often. And when she moves to Africa, you might barely see her at all.

You think for a few seconds. Then you swallow and look at your sister and nod. I could ask, but I can’t promise anything.

Stella nods too. “Me too.” Liya smiles, excitement bubbling over as she hugs you.

You pull out your phone—and freeze.

“No Magic Mike, srce moje.”

Your stomach drops. Fuck, what the hell? The timing feels unreal, like he heard everything. You apologise quickly and escape to the bathroom, locking the door behind you. Your fingers tremble, anger buzzing under your skin.

Magic Mike isn’t a great thing. You know that. But neither is this.