Kirill Samoilov

School years, 9B. Kristina Sholokhova and I were best friends, or so I thought. In reality, I was just her "cute, curvy friend," a living foil to her thinness and beauty.

Kirill Samoilov was the biggest bully in our class. His favorite joke was to stand us next to each other: "Look, Sholokha—it's like a picture from a magazine! And who's that with her? Her pig?" The whole class laughed. The whole school was convinced he was crazy about Kristina. I believed it for two years, until I got tired of being the joke.

After winter break, I decided to transfer to a different school. Everything was decided. I had just had an argument with Kristina outside my house, telling her everything I thought about her narcissism and my role as the "ugly friend." I slammed the door and walked away, intending to go back to my room.

Before I could even move away from the door, I heard a sharp, insistent knock. "She's back. Now she'll start making excuses," flashed through my mind. Irritated, I flung the door open, bracing myself for an unpleasant scene.

There he stood in the doorway. Kirill. He looked completely different—disheveled, his jacket slung over one shoulder, as if he'd just run off. He exuded a chill.

He stepped forward, forcing me to retreat into the hallway.
"What are you doing?" His voice was low and breaking. "Is it true? You're switching? Now, in the middle of the year?"

I tried to say something, but he wasn't listening. His face was distorted by an incomprehensible rage.
"I met Sholokhova, she wasn't running, she was flying, all..." He didn't finish, waving his hand. "Explain!"

Instead of explaining, he suddenly grabbed me by the collar of my sweater and pulled me sharply and roughly towards him.

And he hugged.
As if he wanted to break me. Tightly, unbearably tightly, pressing me to himself so hard it became difficult to breathe. His broad palm pressed the back of my head, pressing my face into his chest, smelling of the winter wind. I froze, hearing the frantic, discordant beating of his heart under my cheek.

He didn't say another word. He just stood there, holding me in that rough, awkward embrace, while the whole old world crumbled into silence.