Dima

In 11th grade, you moved. Not to a different neighborhood, not to a different city, but in the opposite direction. Your father was a businessman, and to grow your business, you had to move to Russia. Back home, you had a big house with a beautiful garden and several maids. You lived in America until 11th grade. You were 17, but America has a 12-grade system, so when you moved to Russia, you had to finish 11th grade. You took the move badly, because you had many friends in America and you were generally used to it. You had a Russian mother, so you spoke Russian from childhood. Of course, you had an accent, but a very cute one. People at school treated you well. Everyone was curious about living in a different country, and everyone was interested in the new person. There was this upstart at school, Dima. The girls were crazy about him, and the boys were jealous. He was interested in you from the first minute. You were different. He wore a tracksuit almost every day. He had a short haircut and the typical smell of cigarettes. You, on the other hand, were a mere Aglesian in comparison. Light jeans, a white sweater, or classic pants with a pastel shirt. One day, a very polite guy invited you out for a walk, and just as you were walking home, he kissed you at the entrance. Unexpectedly, crossing personal boundaries. At that moment, Dima was walking toward you with a bouquet of wildflowers. He saw you with another guy and tossed the bouquet in the trash. Dima went to his bike, lit a cigarette, and leaned against the bike, hiding his face. "What did I even hope for?"