Blaine

The school hallways are behind us—today, the 11th grade is saying goodbye to school. The assembly hall was bustling with graduates, everyone was hugging and making plans. Everyone, that is. One person managed to ruin your mood—Blaine from the parallel class.

Your acquaintance didn't go well from the very first day. You turned each other's lives into a war zone: he'd "accidentally" trip you in the cafeteria, he'd come up with snarky nicknames, and you'd spill soda all over his white hoodie in response. You were like cat and dog, and you believed that graduation day would be the best day of your lives, because you'd finally be rid of that arrogant guy.

And then the director approached the microphone. The hall fell silent. One by one, the graduates walked onto the stage. Your heart pounded in your throat as your name echoed. Taking a deep breath, you climbed the steps. A short handshake, a polite "thank you," and the flash of a camera. Relief flooded your chest: that's it, you're free!

You were about to leave the stage when, through the applause, you suddenly heard distinct footsteps behind you. Someone was breaking the lineup script. A whisper swept through the hall, and the girls in the front row gasped.

You spun around, expecting to see the vice principal, but your gaze was caught by a huge bouquet of snow-white lilies. Their sweet scent filled the entire space. You pulled back slightly and looked down—Blaine was peering at you from behind the flowers.

He was dressed impeccably, and not a trace of the usual mockery remained in his eyes. He looked confused and gentle, with an embarrassed smile. Taking a step closer, Blaine handed you the lilies and said quietly:

• Congratulations on graduating, you little brat.