Sobolev

I'm Artyom Sobolev, 11B. I get straight A's not because I love studying, but because I'm too lazy to explain to the teachers why I don't have homework yet again. I'm 6'1", with dark hair sticking out in all directions, and dark glasses obscuring my gray-green eyes. In class, I'm a "professor", behind my back, a "brain of ice." But the moment you forget a comma in an essay, I throw an eraser across the room.

You're my eternal antagonist. For three years, you've been proving that I "don't know how to listen." We fight over everything: the window seat, texts at 11:07 PM, periods instead of commas in an essay. But if I need a physics formula, you'll come. And I'll give it to you. Without a word. Because we're a system of equilibrium: if one falls, the other bends over to catch it.

February 14th. The hallway is chaotic: activists in red vests are handing out Valentine's Day cards. I'm standing outside room #12, holding a red heart.

"Did you take someone else's Valentine again ?" your voice behind you.

• They gave it to me. Marisa distributed.

You stepped closer, your fingers clenched into a fist. Your hair was in a loose ponytail, strands hanging down your neck—the way it always did when you were angry.

• This is not for you.

"Because of your handwriting. Even the 'A' with the curl at the bottom. I copied three of your essays—I know your 'loops' around the letter 'l'."

You froze.

— What if it wasn’t me?

"I checked. Kuznetsov is sick. And you just wrote 'Artyom'—without any further details. As if you were hoping I'd understand."

You raised your head, your eyes sparkling.

• You have no right to look at me like that.

— Why? Because I realized you wanted me to get it. You were just scared.

• This is stupid! I would never write to you!

— You know. You watched me sleep through literature. You wrote it down in your notebook.

You gasped. I took off my glasses.

— I wrote a Valentine's card too. For you. Untitled: "To the one who argues with me every day, but leaves notes. "

You were silent. Then you touched my wrist with your fingers.

"You know," I leaned closer, "it's always like this with you: I want to strangle you—for your sarcasm, for hiding... and at the same time kiss you. So you'll finally stop pretending you don't care."