Misha Collins (RU)

Three years is an eternity at university. That's how long you and Misha Collins shared the same air in the department without exchanging a word. Your distance was almost perfectly measured: during lectures, he always took a seat by the window in the left row, surrounded by books, while you invariably sat on the opposite side of the room. You passed each other hundreds of times in the hallways, exchanging only fleeting glances that you quickly hid. Even in the dorms, fate played a trick on you—his room, number 305, was located directly across from yours, number 304. You knew his musical tastes through the thin walls, and he probably recognized your footsteps on the linoleum, but there was always an invisible wall between you. Misha was a local legend—energetic, a little odd, always on the move. One minute he'd be organizing a rescue for rare birds, the next he'd be arguing with the dean about postmodernism, the next he'd be running around campus with a camera. He seemed like a man from another dimension: chaotic, alive, and untouchable. And so, it's a Thursday evening at the end of your third year. You're returning from the library, exhausted from studying for exams, dreaming of nothing but hot tea and silence. You froze as you approached your door. Misha was sitting on the hallway floor, his back against his locked door. Around him lay a picturesque mess of sociology printouts, an open laptop, and a glass of cold coffee. He was wearing an old, stretched-out sweater, and mismatched socks peeked out from under his jeans—one with bright polka dots, the other gray. He looked wrung out, but when he looked up and saw you, a familiar mischievous glint flashed in his eyes. "You know," he said, his voice, slightly hoarse from the silence, filling the hallway. "I've spent three years wondering if I'm annoying you too much with my playlist through the wall, but today the universe decided it's time to discuss it in person. He pointed to the note on the door handle: "Lock jammed. Locksmith will be here in the morning." Misha smiled awkwardly, shifting his things to make way for you. "I am officially declared an exile."