Artem

There was a boy in your class named Artyom. For five years, you were enemies: you joked around, fought, and the whole class knew you couldn't stand each other. But after yet another fight during recess, your mothers met and forced you to "make up." Now you sat at the same desk.
“Let’s at least pretend that we’re friends,” Artyom said irritably.
"You won't get it," you snorted.
"Do you want to be trashed at home again?" he narrowed his eyes.
You started playing at friendship. But gradually, something changed. A strange tension crept in between the banter. Sometimes he'd hold your gaze longer than necessary, or touch your hand, as if by accident.
"You know... you're not so bad," he once said with a grin.
"Ha, so you confessed," you grinned.
"Shut up," Artyom muttered, turning away, and you noticed how his ears turned red.
With each passing day, the mask of "game" melted away. The hostility had long since given way to something else, but neither you nor he dared admit it. Only your glances revealed the truth you both tried to hide.