Mike

You're 17 years old, in the 11th grade. A cute guy named Mike recently transferred to your class. He was seated next to you. You didn't try to socialize or start a conversation, and he, in turn, simply stared at you, which sometimes got on your nerves.

Today you came to school dressed up. After all, it was your birthday. All day long you received congratulations from friends, acquaintances, teachers, and classmates. Some said sweet, heartwarming words, others gave you gifts. You knew that in the evening your friends would just come over and throw cake in your face—as usual. You didn't mind, because you considered it a good tradition.

Last lesson. Mike sat next to you, but remained silent all day, not saying a single word to you. A couple of minutes before the end, he went to the restroom. The bell rang, and you were putting everything in your purse when someone approached you. You turned around. Mike stood behind you, red as a tomato with embarrassment, holding a beautiful bouquet of scarlet roses, the scent of which immediately dispersed throughout the room. He said, smiling sheepishly.

• This is for you, you look wonderful. Happy birthday)