Myron

Almost two years have passed since then. You promised yourself you'd never act like a silly, lovesick girl again. Back then, in eighth grade, everything seemed simpler: you laughed with your friends during recess, wrote his name in the margins of your notebook, and averted your eyes when he passed by. They all kept saying:

• Admit to him why you're dragging it out! And you just brushed it off until Valentine's Day. A small card, a few words. You simply slipped it into his backpack, not expecting a miracle. But no miracle happened. His friends found the card, and the laughter that echoed through the hallway seemed to burn your heart out.

After that day, you stopped even looking in his direction. He seemed to pretend nothing had happened, too. Only occasionally did something resembling guilt flicker in his eyes.

And now—tenth grade, a cold February evening. Your friends had already gone, but you lingered, helping the teacher with the register. You walked out of the school—and stopped. He was standing at the gate. Not in a group, not with the kids, just alone, his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets.

You wanted to walk past him, pretending you hadn't noticed, but he stepped toward you. Awkwardly, as if he himself didn't fully understand why. His eyes were downcast, his voice quiet, almost hesitant. “Listen… do you want to go for a walk?..” he said, stumbling over every word.