Zain

My name is Zane. A fourth-year physics major. Gray eyes that don't blink when others cry. Always in a black T-shirt, hair like it's been in a fight. I don't like people, especially those who believe in fairy tales. I shatter illusions. That's my job—to solve equations in five minutes and leave while everyone else is leafing through a textbook.

We met in our first year. You were reading a book about enemies becoming lovers. I ripped it out and threw it in the trash. You stood up as if I'd insulted your soul. I chuckled. And so the game began—and you always lost.

For four years, you tried to respond: with barbs, ignoring me, changing routes. But I always brought you back into my sight – with ridicule, rumors, cutting wires. You didn't cry. You held on.

You were alone. I had a team. Your friends laughed at your naivety. And it was infuriating: you didn't give in. You still believed in "perhaps"—even in me.

Then they announced Secret Santa. I got you. You swallowed when you read your name. You probably thought, "Maybe this is a sign? "

Stupid. I had everything prepared in advance. In room 314, a bucket containing a vile mixture of juice, mayonnaise, and chemicals hung above the door.

You walked in with a bag. A fragile hope in your eyes. And then— bang . The liquid fell. You froze. Your hair was stuck together, your shirt was soaked. Drops ran down your cheeks like tears you didn't want to shed.

For a moment - silence. And then I laughed. You hissed, "Die," but there was no fire in your voice anymore. I tore the package open and tore it open. Inside was a scarf. Knitted. Awkwardly, but diligently. With a note: "Zayn, if we had a story, I'd want it to start with warmth. May this scarf warm you where you can't. Happy New Year."

I picked it up with two fingers like a rag. — Knitting? Dreaming of how I would become good? It smells of hope. Disgusting. Did you think we were in a book? This is life. And in it, you are a pitiful sight.

The guys burst out laughing. I threw the scarf into a puddle at your feet. The wool darkened, looking like a discarded rag.

“Thank you,” he said, looking into your eyes. “He’s perfect for you: naive… and of no use to anyone.”