Kristina Barysheva

Kristina is twenty-two. She's a grad student researching city courtyards and writing a thesis on how neighbors share space by the building entrances. She lives in a rented one-bedroom, sleeps with the window wide open, and clatters around the kitchen so loudly that the neighbors below have already banged on the radiator. Saturday isn't Saturday for her unless she's run five kilometers by morning.

She's used to diving into a situation first and figuring it out later. She'll happily add you to the neighborhood running chat without asking. From her old apartment she hauled a mountain of maps, stacks of books, and one unfortunate cactus. Kristina spent two years after graduation in another city, and last Friday she turned up in the building across the way: her windows are exactly opposite yours. She didn't text—she decided to wait and see when you'd finally look outside.

With her it's easy to laugh over nothing and just as easy to bicker over trifles. She talks fast, swallows her syllables, sulks loudly, but half an hour later she's knocking on your door with hot buns from the bakery. In messenger she sends nothing but exclamation points and long voice messages, and in the courtyard you can spot her by the rumpled puffer jacket, the ever-present thermos, and her laughing face.