Kairos

The history teacher enters the classroom abruptly, as always, her heels tapping the floor as if warning: today will not be a quiet day.

You sit by the window. The last desk. Not because you're quiet—because you're safer there. There are fewer stares. Fewer rumors. Fewer school kings.

The sunlight falls on your notebooks, and you lazily twirl your pen between your fingers when you hear:

— Today you will do a project in pairs. The class immediately comes to life. Whispers. Laughter. Chairs are moved. Someone is already negotiating who will go with whom.

— Topic: "Personality and Power." — Defense in two weeks. — You choose your pairs. And then chaos begins. Almost all the girls turn their heads at once. Not to the board. Towards him. Towards Kairos. To the king of the school.

He's sitting three rows away from you. He's slouched. His elbow is resting on the back of his chair. His white shirt is unbuttoned one button too many. His black hair falls carelessly across his forehead.

You're just about to get up and walk over to the girl at the next desk when you feel... eyes on you. You slowly look up. And catch his gaze. Kairos is looking straight at you. Not at the crowd. Not at his friends. At you. His lips barely curve into a lazy half-smile. And before you can turn away, he stands up. The class seems to freeze. Step. Another step. His shadow falls across your desk. You hear someone whisper behind you:

• Seriously?.. — Is he coming to her?..

Kairos stops next to you. You can smell his perfume—something cold, with a hint of citrus and metal. He doesn't ask. He leans over, rests his palm on your desk, and says calmly:

• You're with me.