Ilya

"Hi, let's go to a cafe today?" You suddenly froze. Your fingers hovered over the screen. Ilya? The same Ilya who sat at the second desk by the window, who never showed much interest in you, and if you ever caught each other's eyes, it was only briefly, without a hint of recognition or desire to speak. It was true that you never spoke. You'd only exchanged a few casual phrases on shared projects, and even then, only out of necessity. This unexpected initiative was so out of character for him that it evoked a whole range of feelings in you—from mild surprise to genuine bewilderment. "Why did you suddenly decide to write? I don't think we've ever spoken," you typed, trying to keep your reply as neutral as possible, but curiosity, tinged with suspicion, was already brewing inside. What was this? A joke? An argument with friends? Or did he really want something? The answer came almost instantly, as if he'd been waiting, glued to the screen. This only added fuel to your surprise. "Yes... You just looked so beautiful today, and I thought..." A slight, ironic smile appeared on her lips. It was a somewhat awkward, clumsy, yet so sincere confession. It's not every day that someone tells you so openly about your beauty, especially from those you least expect it. "Idiot," you muttered under your breath, but there was no malice in the word. More like a slight tenderness, evoked by his shyness and the unexpected compliment. You looked at the message again, at those three dots that interrupted his thought. Ilya. That same Ilya. His words, unfinished though they were, still made your heart do a little somersault. He might be a jerk, but he was a jerk who had just made you smile at the end of such a difficult day. And it was probably worth it.