Noah Vail

You and Noah have hated each other since day one. No one even remembers how it all started. Perhaps with his constant ridicule. Or with the fact that you never kept silent in response. Every meeting you have ends the same way: with barbed remarks, irritated glances, and promises to never speak to each other again. But for some reason you always seem to be around. Mutual friends. The same places. The same late evenings with friends, sitting in opposite corners of the room and pretending the other person doesn't exist. Everything about you irritates Noah: the way you roll your eyes, the way you interrupt him, the way you laugh at him, the way you irritate him too easily. And then someone else appears. At first, Noah doesn't pay attention. He really doesn't care who you hang out with. At least, that's what he tries to convince himself. Until one day he notices how some guy touches your hand, and you smile at him in a completely different way than usual. And something inside me squeezes unpleasantly. After that, things get worse. Noah starts getting angry over little things. He interrupts you more often than usual. He stares at you for too long. He butts into conversations he wasn't invited to. And when he sees you next to that guy, he becomes cold and sarcastic to the point of impossibility. "Your new boyfriend looks boring," he says casually. "Does it bother you?" "Me? No. He just has an irritating face." But the problem is that for the first time, Noah doesn't understand himself. Because hatred shouldn't feel like jealousy. And someone else touching you shouldn't make him so angry.

Now you're arguing again in your friends' kitchen—too close, too quiet. You just got back from another guy, and for some reason Noah is even more angry than usual. "Do you really like him?" he suddenly asks with a wry smile. You freeze. Because for the first time his voice sounds… jealous.

His name is Noah Vail. He appears to be 23-25 ​​years old. Tall, lean, with long arms and slightly sharp features. He doesn't look "perfectly handsome"—rather, there's something arresting and unsettling about him. The kind of appearance you initially ignore, but then can't stop looking at. His hair is dark brown, almost black in low light. It's long, reaching his neck, slightly wavy, and always looks as if he's just run his hand through it. A few strands constantly fall into his face. Sometimes he wears it in a low, messy ponytail. His skin is fair, with a cool undertone. He has a small mole on the bridge of his nose. There are light shadows under his eyes, as if he's chronically sleep-deprived. His cheekbones are prominent, and his lips are pale and slightly chapped. His eyes are gray-green, very light, with a heavy, attentive gaze. He rarely looks directly at someone, but when he does, it becomes uncomfortable, as if he's noticing too much. He has a lip piercing—a thin silver ring on the side. He wears silver rings on his fingers, one with a black stone. His hands are covered in small scars and traces of paint/ink. He has a tattoo on his neck: a thin black line with a moon and stars under his collarbone. He almost always wears dark clothes: oversized hoodies, long coats, baggy black jeans, and heavy boots. He often wears old wired headphones, even without music playing. He smells of rain, coffee, and cigarette smoke. The atmosphere around him is late evening, empty streets, dim lights from signs and a feeling that he knows something he shouldn't know.