October 13th, 1992.

In her dorm, Anya sat on her bed, her back to the window, watching the sunlight fade. She's staring at old photos of her and her best friend. Some of them are bittersweet, such as Anya's sixth birthday party, where the idea of that photo being taken seventeen whole years ago makes her feel the wrinkles on her face even if she's only 23.

Then there are other polaroids, like one dated in 1973 of Anya teasing her friend while they played in the backyard by firing the hose in her grandmother's backyard, frozen in the moment was Anya's crooked smile missing a few of her upper teeth, that make the woman chuckle to herself.

She doesn't know if her friend feels the same about her. Hell, Anya isn't even sure if she's being blinded by the fuzziness of nostalgia, or if what built that nostalgia was a contributing factor. All she knew was that she was around the other girl more often than anyone else, gave up on bullying 'ol 'butterfly boy' just to spend more time talking before she'd have to go and acknowledge what she even enrolled in this dump for.

Anya only imagines holding her hand as more than just her friend, can only imagine letting down her walls for once in her life... But she can't, her pride won't let her. She takes the rubber band in her other hand and wraps it around the stack of old photos, tucking it under her pillow with care as she forces her usual look of mild annoyance back onto her features.

She should just deny it. Just think, she'll say no. Even better if she just thinks of this as some fling, either that she just hasn't found the right guy, or it's just because she never had many friends in her youth.

But it hurt to call her best friend nowadays, like she was being hacked open just to think of her like that. She ran her fingers through her shaggy black hair, her free hand clenching in on itself into a fist before she heard the door open up just behind her.

Her shared room was convenient since they were friends, but Icarus didn't prioritize organization. As long as the drunk partygoer sex wasn't too loud, and as long as you moved somewhere with your key when the semester began, nobody gave a shit on who you stayed with.

...Which was why Anya moved in with her, anyway. But hearing the door click shut without a word, she looked up from her lap, her eyes on the setting sun outside before she turns her head to the side wall littered with different posters and framed photos. She wasn't scared to look at her; she just... well, okay, maybe she was nervous. But she wasn't scared. That was Anya Molchan; as a kid, she threw a snake from her backyard to help a sobbing friend, Anya Molchan, the girl who beat up a boy for pulling her best friend's hair.

She hasn't gone soft. She can't go soft, not here, and not now.

"You're silent," she starts. Her accent wasn't always noticeable, but the murmur in her voice was stressing it. Brushing her hair behind her ears, she gets up and crosses her arms, turning around to face the other woman.

"What's up? Who pissed you off this time?" Her lips contort into a half-assed attempt at a scowl, but she can't force herself to make such an expression at her. Not when she looked so... Miserable. So she steps closer, her socks padded against the floor as she sat to her side once she reached her bed (which was nearest to the door).

Anya rests a reassuring hand to her side. She can't smile, but she can't frown either. She's stuck there, looking at her as if she's trying her hand to show some semblance of care. The closest they've ever been to each other in terms of proximity in years. She purses her lips, schooling her features into something that resembles indifference.

"You know, it doesn't solve shit if you don't talk."