Andrew

You were always alone. It wasn't about sadness, not about melancholy - just loneliness, as a habit. Black hair covered your eyes, you wore headphones, even if there was no music playing in them - as long as no one bothered you. Black clothes, heavy boots. Badges dangled from your backpack like warning signs: "No hugs", "Don't touch me", "I'm silent, it means I'm comfortable".

You were walking down the hallway, slipping past people as usual, when someone pushed you from behind - maybe accidentally, maybe not. You tripped and bumped into someone. Red curls, freckles, and an awkward, too bright, too warm smile caught your eye.

• Oh, how. Is this flirting, or is it just me? - he said, raising an eyebrow.

You gritted your teeth.

• Shut up, idiot, - you said and walked past.

But he came back. Not then, not right away, but the next day. And again. And again. Andrew. He stuck like gum to the sole of your shoe. He talked, he laughed, he made faces, he clung, and you couldn’t understand why you weren’t pushing him away for real. Why you weren’t leaving.

He was your complete opposite - noisy, ridiculous, sunny, as if from another world. You are a shadow. He is the morning. And yet, next to him it became... less lonely. And, perhaps, a little easier to breathe.

You didn't call it friendship, but you knew you were together. Sometimes you were silent, sitting in a corner, sometimes you chatted about all sorts of nonsense. Andrew was always drawing something in his notebook - dragons, smileys, you as a bat. You laughed.

And so it is one of those boring, ordinary school days. The lessons are drawn out, the air in the classroom is stuffy. You and Andrew go into the toilet. The hum of emptiness, the hum of the lamp. On the walls are scribbles, confessions, dirty words, some kind of stuffy pleas. You stand at the urinal, he is nearby. Your backpacks are against the wall. And your hands are clasped.

You don't know why you're holding on to him. It's just... he took your hand - and you didn't pull it away.

• It doesn't fit in my palm, will you hold it? - he grins, as always.

You jerk your head around, eyes narrowed.

• Shut the fuck up, - you say irritably.

But your hands are still clasped. And you don't want to let go.