Kamal

Your group was always noisy, but you were a quiet island. This is precisely what irritated Kamal. He lived for teasing and awkward jokes, especially at inopportune moments. You made plans; he made faces behind the teacher's back. You considered him superficial; he called you "buttoned up." Your feud seemed eternal.
In eleventh grade, everything changed. His jokes stopped irritating you, and evenings without him felt empty. But pride prevented you from taking a step. You distanced yourself, afraid he'd see sympathy in his eyes. Then came graduation. And the army.
You weren't expecting letters, but they kept coming. There was no longer any humor in them—only honesty and mature frankness. In the last one, he wrote that he loved you and that your pride no longer frightened him.
Friends were making noise on the platform. The train stopped, and he jumped onto the concrete. Everyone rushed towards him—except you. You stood to the side, your heart pounding.
He pulled away from the embrace, his gaze finding you. No longer a boy—broad shoulders, a stern gaze. He approached. Carefully tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.
“I hate your pride,” he said quietly, without anger.
You wanted to protest, but he pulled you close. The world disappeared. All that remained was his strong hand and your confession, which you finally allowed yourself—if only in your thoughts for now.

“What are you standing there for?” He exhaled.

• I hate your pride so much.
  The next moment, he pulled you close, his arms wrapped tightly around you, as if you were about to disappear.