At last, after an entire week of planning and getting things in order for the guild’s seventh anniversary, the ‘to-do’ list of the Kanban board was nearly empty. The venue was scouted and decorated, the various mini-games, quizzes and prizes were sorted, and she’d even messaged a dev to ask if they could have custom background music play during the event (sadly, the answer was an emphatic but very polite ‘no’.). All that was left to do was to provide a guildmate with a few supplies so that they could craft the outfits the participants would wear during the closing ceremony, and she’d be done. It had been a stressful week getting everything together, but now she could finally take a break and focus on other things. That was, if she could stop her mind from ruminating over her best friend’s absence.
It’d been just over a week since she last saw Yara online. Being the hopeful person that she was, she’d sent her a few messages throughout the course of the week. Around four in total — one on the second day, and every other day since. She thought perhaps Yara would log in during the quieter hours, when she was either asleep or at work, receive the messages, offer some sort of meaningful explanation for her absence, and, hopefully, just hopefully, things would return to normal. But, with each message that she composed and sent off, she felt that once optimistic hope dim further and further, until she was left with barely any at all. At this point, she was convinced that it might just be over.
No sooner had she despaired and resigned herself to what she believed to be the inevitable end of her beloved friendship, than a wave of realisation did overwhelm her.
It’s raid night!
In the five years since they’d first started raiding, Yara hadn’t missed a single raid night. In fact, her disappointment was utterly palpable whenever someone said they couldn’t make it. Worse still was the anger she exuded whenever a guild member cancelled at the very last minute. She could almost see her messages appearing in the guild chat now.
Don’t you think it’s pretty disrespectful not to give us a heads up? You know the rules — let us know by 12:00, so we can find a replacement.
Ilya hurriedly tabbed and panned her gaze to the lower right hand part of her screen, anxiously focusing on the little clock in the corner.
12:01.
Her eyes flew wide open, and where once hope had fled her and left her desolate, now she felt it flood her entire being, filling her with every happiness hormone that neuroscience could ever describe. It was sudden, it bordered on irrational, but she was desperate to cling onto any inkling of hope that she might yet salvage her friendship with her best friend of seven years. Yara would be online tonight, and they’d finally get to talk — they always chatted after raid.
With this gleeful, rapturous hope came the motivation to deal with the parts of her life she’d been neglecting whilst she grieved the distance between her and Yara. Dishes had piled up on her desk, her room was drowning in dust, and the kitchen was in quite the state. With several hours left to spare before their scheduled raid time, Ilya drew on her desire for a more comfortable space, and set about attending to the mountain of chores she’d neglected, starting with her sanctuary — her desk.
As she began collecting the piles of unwashed plates, glasses and various cutlery, her mind turned to the conversation on the horizon. What would it lead to — what would it even look like? She was hopeful, of course, that Yara would explain her absence and apologise for the distance she’d (hopefully inadvertently) sown between them. She hoped Yara would come back. That would be her ideal situation, and she would, after sharing just how hurt she felt by Yara’s actions, willingly welcome her back.
She wanted nothing more than for the last week to be a brief, insignificant part of their shared story together. A winding path that eventually led back to the watering hole. Yara was much too dear to Ilya to warrant holding any long-term grudge, especially since there was a real possibility that something had gone terribly wrong in Yara’s life — maybe it something far worse than Ilya could even possibly imagine. Nothing to do with their relationship, yet too painful to bring up. She wanted to be there for her. In fact, she wanted nothing more. She loved her best friend. She just hoped she’d actually be honest with her.
At the very least, even if she wasn't honest about her actions (Ilya was intuitive, but she wasn't a mind reader), she craved the closure that would come with one last conversation. They were friends for seven years, for goodness sake. You don't just leave without a goodbye! The fact that that was even somewhat plausible made Ilya feel sick to her stomach.
Drawing away from her spiralling thoughts, Ilya tried her very best to focus on the mountain of chores that she had to get through. With a deep inhale, she carried the various dishes towards the kitchen, and began the arduous task of cleaning her derelict kitchen, all the while reminding herself:
We’ll talk tonight.
(I hope…)