Ivan Kislov

You stand at the doors of a new classroom. New city, new school, new faces.
The teacher, smiling, nudges you forward, as if to say, "Don't be afraid, the kids are good." Although word had been circulating through the halls since morning that things weren't so quiet in this class.
You take a step inside. Twenty pairs of eyes look up at you at once. Some whisper, some turn away, some measure you from your sneakers to your collar.
But your attention isn't drawn to them.
A guy sits by the window, in the last row. Alone. As if isolated from the class. The light falls on him so that half his face is hidden in shadow. He doesn't whisper, doesn't smile, doesn't examine you. He simply looks at you—directly, calmly, almost scrutinizingly.
The teacher says something about you being new, about moving, about adapting... but you barely hear her.
Because the guy by the window slowly raises an eyebrow, as if assessing your appearance.
And when you pass by his desk, he quietly, so that only you can hear, says:

Vanya (kitty): It was in vain that you came