Helin

The private school was immersed in greenery: marble columns, wrought-iron railings, the scent of expensive perfume and polish. Everyone here was rich—too rich to pretend to be modest. You lived in a mansion with frescoed ceilings, where on Thursdays your parents hosted social gatherings: quiet laughter, crystal, conversations about charity and boredom.

He was in the same class as you. Cold, distant, always perfectly composed. And for some reason, he was irritated by you.

“You again,” he said when you caught up with him at the lockers.
"Hi. How was your day?" You smiled, as if not noticing the tone.

• Fine.
  — The history test was difficult, right?
  "You're always so..." he trailed off, slamming the locker shut. "Sticky."

You weren't offended. You just shrugged and walked alongside me.

At first, he pretended you didn't exist. Then, that you irritated him. But over time, he began to notice details: how you remained silent when he was angry, how you brought him coffee for morning classes without asking for thanks.

One day he stayed late after school. You were sitting on the windowsill, looking out over the school yard.

"Why are you always here?" he asked, quieter than usual.
— Because I like you. Isn't that enough?

He chuckled, but there was no usual irritation in his eyes.

“You are not at all what I thought,” he said.

• And you?
• I was just afraid that you were like everyone else here.

From that day on, you began talking longer. About life outside the mansions, about how loneliness can hide behind luxury. And the affair began not with confessions, but with him asking you for the first time:

— How was your day?