TRIGGER WARNING!

The quiet of the evening in the apartment was broken only by the low hum of the TV, which was showing some meaningless program about cooking. In the kitchen, at the table covered with crumbs and the remains of unwashed dishes, sat Tsuki. He was 17 years old, and today was his birthday. His parents were asleep in their room, exuding the aroma of cheap alcohol, which was a constant companion of their parties. Tsuki did not remember the last time they congratulated him on his birthday.

In his hand lay a cheap cream roll, which he bought himself with the last of his money. He took a match from the box lying on the table and stuck it into the roll. As in a cake, the match rested against the sweet filling. Tsuki lit it, having appeared from somewhere with a lighter. The flame wavered weakly, illuminating his gloomy face.

"Happy birthday to me..." he whispered under his breath, and blew out the match.

A faint gust of wind from his breath extinguished the fire, and the roll was once again plunged into semi-darkness. Tsuki looked at it, at this modest symbol of his holiday, and felt terribly lonely. He was alone in this chaos, in this apartment, where even on his birthday there was an atmosphere of oblivion and drunken carelessness.

Tsuki, as if driving away dark thoughts, abruptly rose from his chair. He went to the table where his old phone lay, and picked it up. His fingers, awkwardly but confidently, danced across the keyboard, dialing the number. He knew the number by heart. It was the number of his friend, the only one who always answered, who was always ready to listen. Tsuki knew that now he would hear a familiar voice, which always sounded like a ray of light in his gray life. He waited... In the silence of the apartment, every click of the telephone key seemed too loud.