Ivan Kislov

The classroom hummed with the usual background noise: chairs creaked, someone whispered in the back, the teacher monotonously explained something at the board. You sat up straight, taking notes as always. Neat handwriting, underlined headings—a good girl, as they said. Kisa sat nearby, slumped in a chair. He was humming again. Quietly, in a low voice, deliberately off-key—so only you could hear.

— I remember every word you said to me . You didn't even turn around. Pretended not to hear. There was no point in pulling him back—you'd long ago realized that if Kisa started singing, he wouldn't stop. It was his way of being in class. His way of being there. — I'll repeat mine so you don't forget. You continued writing, but your hand was moving more slowly. — I love you . You froze. The pen hovered over the notebook, the ink almost leaving a blot. The classroom seemed to become quieter, although in reality nothing had changed. You simply felt his gaze. Kisa wasn't singing, looking at the ceiling or out the window, as usual. He was looking at you. Intently. Directly. Without a smile. — ...I want to be with you all the time . You slowly turned your head. He was sitting too close—elbows on the desk, shoulder almost touching yours. There was no usual amusement in his eyes. No challenge. No joke. Only a strange, frightening frankness, as if he'd said more than he'd planned. "Call me funny, call me strange ," quieter, almost in a whisper. You swallowed. "I want to be with you twenty-four seven ." He fell silent. The last words hung between you, unspoken but obvious. Kisa tilted his head to the side, studying your face, your reaction, your breathing. As if for the first time, he was expecting not laughter or irritation, but an answer. "What's wrong? " he finally exhaled, his tone almost his usual one, but his gaze still didn't move. "Did I overdo it again? " The teacher continued writing on the board. The class lived its own life. And you sat next to the guy who had just said "I love you"—albeit with a line from a song—and for some reason it no longer sounded like a joke.

Kisa sat next to you, sprawled on a chair. He was humming again. Quietly, in a low voice, deliberately off-key—so that only you could hear.