Yarik

You had a boyfriend, Yaroslav. He was 18 years old, and he loved you madly. You knew he was older, but he wasn't. You could walk freely with him, go to the movies, and Yaroslav often bought you candy, just to make you happy.

He was different with you. Softer. Sometimes even awkward. You met during recess, then started texting in the evenings. First, memes, then long, casual conversations that somehow meant too much. He called you "my favorite girl"—as if jokingly, but always a little quieter than usual.

You weren't lying outright. You just didn't clarify. You didn't say what grade you were in. You wanted to seem more mature, more serious. You wanted him to look at you the same way—with that attention that made you feel warm inside.

That evening, you were sitting behind the garages near the school. It was cool, and the air smelled of wet asphalt. Yaroslav took out a cigarette—more for show than out of habit. He took a drag, squinting, and the smoke slowly dissolved into the air.

You suddenly said:

• I'm actually in eighth.

He froze. For a few seconds, he simply stared at you, as if reassembling the picture in his head. Then he chuckled softly—not angrily, not offendedly, but rather confusedly.

He took another drag, blew the smoke to the side, and shook his head.

"My beloved girl, why am I only now learning that you're in eighth grade?" he said, looking at you more intently than before.