Artem

The Sosnovy Bor camp stood on the shore of a cold lake. Alina was sixteen, joining the senior detachment for the fourth time. A serious woman, her hair always in disarray and a book in her backpack. The girls obeyed her, but the boys feared her.

Artyom was nineteen. He led her troop and was considered the best counselor on the shift. The kids adored him, and his colleagues respected him. He was quiet—not because he was afraid to speak, but because he was used to listening.

She didn't notice him until the second week. Until that evening, when, at the campfire assembly, he adjusted her sweater, which had slipped off her shoulder, carefully, as if he were afraid of breaking it. She flinched, burned herself on his fingers, and looked into his eyes for the first time.

“Thank you,” she exhaled.

He nodded and walked over to the guitar. But all the way to the building, I felt his gaze between my shoulder blades.

On the fourth day, she stayed up past lights out, reading under the covers with a flashlight. He sat down on the next bed and handed her a mug of tea. Mint. Her favorite.

“How do you know?” she asked in a whisper.

— I watched you brew in the mornings.

She choked. He smiled—for the first time in a long time—and she knew she was lost.

They met secretly. After lights out, by the fire where he kept watch. He didn't touch her—he just held her hand, talked about books, laughed at her stories. She felt alive.