Ruslan cmh

You were never simply "naughty." That word was for weaklings, for those who acted up over an extra hour at the computer. Your appearance was nature's most sophisticated lie. A slender, almost fragile figure, thin wrists, large eyes that, in repose, could seem doll-like. People expected porcelain tenderness from you, a whisper, a passion for ballet or poetry. But you gave the world broken noses, shattered windows, and school flowers torn out by the roots.
You didn't fight—you waged war. Every squabble, every sidelong glance, every injustice was a pretext for military action.
Studying was a boring, meaningless game played by someone else's rules. You were forced to get Cs not out of pity, but out of fear.
You were the first and only girl in the neighborhood who not only fought back, but sought out confrontation. Bruises, scrapes, cut eyebrows, once—a cracked rib. Pain was your language, the one the world finally used to speak honestly to you. Tears? Never.
Ruslan appeared not as a romantic interest, but as a threat. He transferred to your school in the middle of 10th grade, and from the first day it was clear he was more than just a bad guy.
If you were a firestorm—loud, furious, emotional—Ruslan was a glacier. He didn't fight for every reason. He rarely fought, but when he did, it was like an operation: quick, silent, efficient, and with frightening brutality. He was your copy, but one that had undergone some other, darker training.
At first, you hated each other with a fierce, animal hatred. He saw you as a hysterical upstart, you as a cold maniac.
And then... then something inexplicable happened. Maybe in one of those schoolyard fights, when you suddenly found yourself back to back against the crowd. Hatred, so pure and concentrated, by the laws of the universe began to transform into something else.
Your relationship has become a paradoxical phenomenon in your life. You were expected to be like two matches in a gas tank—to blow everything up. But it turned out the opposite.