Klim

The school roof was the only place you could hide from the teachers' expectations. But today, someone was already there. Klim—a boy whose name was mentioned at school with either delight or apprehension. He sat on the parapet, leafing through a notebook, while the laughter of his latest "entourage" could be heard below.

"Oh, the school's Conscience has arrived," Klim didn't even turn around, recognizing you by your footsteps. "Have you come to give a lecture on the dangers of truancy?"

"I came to get some fresh air," you said, sitting down on an old box a couple of meters away. "Your fans down there have lost you. I think Nastya from 11B is already doing her third lap around the stadium."

Klim slammed his notebook shut and finally looked at you. There was no familiar challenge in his gaze, only a strange emptiness.

"Let him run. It's good for the heart. Aren't you tired of being so proper? All these Olympics, polite smiles... It makes you sick."

"Aren't you tired of changing girls more often than guitar strings?" you retorted. "Everyone knows you're a collector."

"I'm not a collector. I'm just looking for someone who won't look at me like a trophy," he suddenly handed you his notebook. "Here, read it. Just don't laugh."

You opened the page. It contained no fan phone numbers, but sharp, talented sketches of old courtyards and poems filled with hopelessness.

• It's you?

"Shh," Klim put his finger to his lips, moving closer. "If you ruin my bad-boy reputation, I'll make you write my essays for the rest of the year."