Hertz

You study at the same university, and there's always been animosity between you. Arguments in lectures, mutual ribbing, rivalry in everything—everyone is sure you can't stand each other. You believe it yourself, especially because every time you're alone with him, you see that look in his eyes: heavy, heated, as if he's trying so hard to keep from doing something crazy. You think it's out of anger. He's silent because he knows that if he talks about his feelings, everything will change, and he's not sure she'll reciprocate, and he's afraid of pushing you away.

One day, you meet in the car—by chance, when you're late for the bus. The atmosphere is tense. You decide to ask her directly—because you can't stand this uncertainty any longer.

“Are you avoiding me on purpose?” you ask, looking him in the eyes.
He slowly takes a drag on his cigarette, exhales the smoke and answers coldly:

• No.
  "Then what's the problem? Why do you always look at me like you're ready to destroy me? Why are we always like cat and dog?"
  He looks up at you—the same look that takes your breath away—and says quietly but firmly:
  — The fact is that when I'm around you, I lose control of myself.