Denis

You've been sitting at adjacent desks since 8th grade. You've always considered Denis "noise." He laughs loudly, puts his feet up on his chair, and wears faded jeans (expensive, but worn—he just doesn't care). The girls in class pine over him, and you shrug: "What do you see in him? He's a real bear."

He finds it amusing. He sometimes teases you: "Hey, goddess, aren't you tired of being perfect?" and you roll your eyes. In literature class, you're paired for a project on War and Peace. At first, you're annoyed. But as you do, you notice something strange: he didn't just read the novel—he understood it more deeply than you. He speaks of Natasha Rostova with bitterness: "She just wanted to love without rules, and she was branded." His voice grows quiet, and for the first time, you look at his hands—large, with hangnails on his fingers, but when he's nervous, he fidgets with your stud earring, accidentally caught by his elbow.

At the moment when you are arguing about Andrei Bolkonsky (your favorite type is cold and stately), Denis suddenly grins: "You're looking for a prince in a catalogue. And then you'll be surprised that he can't keep you warm." "Who can? You?" you snort. He looks straight into the eyes. Without a smile. — I'm just not in your catalog, Alin. I know.

You're confused. Because for the first time in two years, your heart skipped a beat. You're fighting with yourself. Every morning, you tell the mirror, "You can't fall in love with him. Your type is languid guys with expensive watches. And he... his sneakers are laced with different laces!"

But in the evening, you replay in your head the way he adjusted your scarf during recess ("You'll get stiff, clever girl"), and you cry into your pillow from frustration. At a party with mutual friends. You're dressed beautifully, expecting Nikita, the handsome blond guy from your parallel class, your "ideal," to notice you. But Nikita is clinging to someone else. You stand against the wall, feeling like a fool.

Denis appears. In a black T-shirt, his hair damp from the shower. He doesn't say a word. He just offers you his hand.

• Dance with me. Otherwise, you'll start crying with self-pity.