20/11/24 Anna

My friend Anna flew back to Russia today. By the time she returns to Buenos Aires—I’ll be gone.

Anna is unlike most of my friends. Many of the people I’m close to are emotional and expressive, much like me. But Anna has this quiet, understated tenderness—what I like to call “Russian softness.” Her way of caring is subtle, yet it stays with you long after the moment has passed.

I remember one time on the subway, she turned to me and asked, “Why do you look so sad?” I admitted I felt suffocated, overwhelmed by something I was going through. Without missing a beat, she said, “Let’s go to our place. We’ll play video games and eat ice cream.” On the way to her house, she pointed out her favorite spots in the neighborhood—little parks, cafes, houses, corners that held her quiet affection.

That’s Anna.

She doesn’t just offer comfort; she invites you into her world.

For my birthday, I asked everyone to bring a dish from their home country. Anna showed up with a feast of Russian-style empanadas, enough to share with everyone. It wasn’t just the effort she put into making them—it was the joy of seeing her share a piece of her culture with our friends.

Earlier this year, I had a small fight with a friend. I was upset, frustrated. When I told Anna, she simply said, “It’s okay. Let’s meet up.” She invited me to her apartment, where she had prepared shrimp, guacamole, dessert, and even ordered ice cream. She doesn’t say many sweet words, but she always listens and acts.

Inspired by her adventurous spirit, I tried wakeboarding and ceramics—both experiences brought me new and exciting feelings. What made it even better was sharing these moments with my friend. I feel deeply moved by the idea of seeing her and being seen by her.

There were moments of melancholy too—raw and sudden, like that rainy afternoon at the barbecue festival with Anna, Andrey, and Roman.

We were sitting in the grandstand of a racetrack, eating asado from paper trays, legs stretched out, lazily chatting about nothing in particular. A light drizzle began to fall, soft and persistent, clinging to our jackets and eyelashes.

I looked around—the smell of grilled meat, the mist in the air, the easy presence of friends—just cracked me wide open. I opened Spotify, and played Dust in the Wind.

Tears welled up. “I just—” my voice was already breaking, “I just feel so lucky I met you guys…”

My emotions were swelling.

Something about the rain, the stillness, the way we—friends from different corners of the world—sat together in that moment, just being...It felt so full of grace.

Anna turned to me slowly, raised an eyebrow like the unimpressed queen she is, and deadpanned,“Shikin… this is so corny.”

Then she burst out laughing—loud, unapologetic, full of life: “HAHAHAHA.”

Her laughter was contagious. It broke right through my teary little monologue and hit something soft in me.

And then—just like that—I was laughing too. Still sniffling, tears running down my face as I laughed beside her...like an emotional fountain that had no off switch.

And when I reached out for a group hug—teary, arms wide open, clearly fishing for comfort—they gave it to me, without hesitation.

Anna was still laughing, letting out a sudden snort like, “Oh my god, Shikin, you’re so dramatic.”

But even as she cracked up, she threw one arm around me—Roman and Andrey joined in too, warm and steady, no questions asked.

And just like that, I was wrapped up—in rain, in arms, in a moment so ridiculous and so tender I wanted to bottle it forever.

We sat there, the four of us, huddled in a half-wet group hug, listening to Dust in the rain and the soft rain falling around us.

Anna’s humor is just as understated as her kindness.

Once, I opened up to her about something really tough I was going through—emotional, vulnerable, you know, full heart-on-sleeve mode.

She looked at me, nodded once, and said:

“Fuck.”

And then… nothing.

Dead silence. No follow-up.

Just her, sipping a drink at Chui (one of my fav restaurants in BA) like she’d just delivered a full TED Talk.

The silence stretched so long it circled back and became hilarious.

I couldn’t help it—I burst out laughing.

It was so her.

Minimal words, maximum impact.

Cool as hell, weirdly comforting, and completely goofy in the most unexpected way.

She’s not the kind of friend who writes long, emotional messages or pours her heart out in words.But she’s the kind of friend who shows up.Who takes care of you in quiet, grounded ways.Who’s there—without fuss—when you need her most.

She expresses love through action.

Through presence.

Through thoughtful gestures that speak louder than any paragraph ever could. She opens her heart not with declarations, but by sharing her time, her thoughts, her routines, her food, her laughter, her silences.

Her care is steady. Unspoken. And deeply, deeply felt.

After we said goodbye yesterday, I walked a whole block in tears before hailing a cab. Even now, the weight of farewell to her and to Argentina lingers, but so does the gratitude. I feel so lucky to have had her in my life, to have shared these moments with her, and also in this amazing country.

I hesitated for a moment before deciding whether to write this down and share it with her.

After all, the cool and slightly quirky Anna might laugh at me—call me a “Russian grandma” in crisis.

Jaja… and so what?

These feelings are real.

And I want to put them into words.

I want her to know.

I know that my cool big sister Anna loves her dramatic and emotional butterfly friend.

She gets it.

And I love her.

So this is it. A little tribute to a friend who never needed words to say everything.

When it was time to part, I told her, “This feels strange. Seeing you today felt just like every other time—talking, walking, even saying goodbye. It all felt so casual, like we’re going to see each other again soon.”

She said, “We will meet again. And when we do, it’ll feel like you never even left.”