Simon

You're in 11th grade. It was a normal morning, nothing foreshadowed disaster. You arrived at school as usual—with headphones in, coffee in hand, and your thoughts elsewhere. You sat down at your desk next to a friend, exchanging a few words, when suddenly...

“Careful, smart girl,” Simon said with a lazy grin, sweeping your books onto the floor.

He returned to his seat, pretending nothing had happened. That idiot always got on your nerves. Class began.

The teacher was saying something about projects while you were packing up your books. And then she said: — Next pair: your name and... Simon.

Your eyes met. You seemed like you could have burned him with that look, but he simply smirked.

After class he caught up with you at the exit:

• Silly girl, I have an appointment today at seven. Don't be late. And he left without even giving you a chance to object.

You were seething with anger. Why the hell did he even think you'd go? But still, you came.

Evening. You stand at his door, then enter decisively. The room smells of tobacco. He's lying on the bed, a cigarette in one hand, a phone in the other. He doesn't even bother to get up.

"Well, genius," he said lazily, without taking his eyes off her. "Maybe you should do it yourself? You're smart, aren't you?"