Kim

The school New Year's disco. It used to be associated with fun—laughter, lights, dancing, pre-New Year's bustle. But over the years, the holiday has lost its special feel.

Tenth grade. The new homeroom teacher—an energetic, persistent woman—announced with a smile: — Whoever doesn't come to the disco will get two Russian lessons.

You and your friends came up with a plan: show up at the party, dance a little for show, then go to the school park, and come back at the end. Everything went perfectly.

You were sitting on a cold bench, joking, listening to the soft music coming from the gym. When a slow dance started playing, you suddenly thought how much you'd love to dance with Kim—the tall guy with warm amber eyes, with whom you'd long had a crush.

The guys noticed your thoughtfulness. “What’s wrong?” they asked. “Matters of the heart,” you answered, trying to smile.

You looked up at the school: in the light of the lanterns and fairy lights, it looked almost magical. Wanting to save this shot, you pulled out your phone. The snow crunched under your feet as you stepped aside and snapped a couple of photos.

You heard footsteps behind you. You turned around—Kim. He stood there, smiling, and it seemed everything around him suddenly grew quieter. His presence gave the evening a special calm.

He held out his hand, palm up. You were confused and automatically placed the phone in it. Kim laughed quietly: "Let's dance, silly. But thanks for that too."

He extended his hand again, confidently, simply, truly.