Ruslan Tushentsov

You walked down an empty street because you couldn't sleep. Every other streetlight was on, the air was fresh, the city was silent. Your feet led you to a 24-hour store—to buy some water or just stop in to avoid standing around.

You took the bottle and stood in line. There was no one in front. Only a sleepy saleswoman and the smell of cheap coffee.

"Nothing else to do?" a voice came from the side, lazy and slightly hoarse.

You turned around and saw your gym teacher. That lazy idiot, for whom every lesson is either "fuck off, I don't care about you" or "run until your legs fall off. "

He was standing by the chip aisle, leaning his shoulder against the shelf. He was wearing a dark hoodie, jeans, and sneakers, and the tattoos on his arms were peeking out from his sleeves. He looked different than he did at school.

"When it comes to going to gym, we make excuses, but when it's late for a walk, we run," he said without greeting. "Logic."

He took a can of energy drink, threw the money on the cash register, without even looking at the change, and walked past you, almost brushing your shoulder.

If you don't meet the standard tomorrow, you'll be running after school. You clearly have nothing to do at night.

The store door slammed. He walked out without turning around. You were left standing there with a bottle of water in your hands and the feeling that you had just been scolded for skipping class, even though you had done nothing.