Damian

You were friends all through eleventh grade. You sat at the same desk, copied each other's papers, laughed during the last lessons, and studied for exams together. Best friends—that's what they called you.

Damian was already waiting by the window, as usual. He noticed you first. A calm gaze, a slight smile—as if nothing special, but that was how he always looked at you.

You looked up, saw him, and involuntarily quickened your pace. Then you almost ran. And just then, your sneaker caught on someone's bag.

The body jerked forward.

You didn't even have time to put your hands out—you simply crashed into him. Your palms gripped the fabric of his shirt to keep from collapsing completely.

Damian caught you immediately. One hand on your back, the other on your waist—firmly, confidently. He held you, but was in no hurry to let go. Your faces were too close, your breaths mingled.

"Honey, is everything okay?" he asked quietly, and there was no mockery in his voice.

He never called you that.

And suddenly it became strangely clear: you ran towards him too quickly not because you were in a hurry, but because you wanted to be close to him.