GLORY TO THE KPSS|| GLORY TO MASHNOV|| GLORY

protocol

The hallway was buzzing like a beehive. She stood by the windowsill, pretending to be engrossed in flipping through a literature textbook, though her gaze was naturally drawn to the epicenter of the school chaos.

Slava. You could hear him from everywhere. He was sitting on the windowsill across the street, his legs spread wide in his faded jeans, telling some incredibly stupid story about the gym teacher and a basketball. His dark hair was tousled, his shirt was casually unbuttoned to the top button, and his smile was so bright you wanted to close your eyes.

Girls flocked around him like moths to a lamp. They laughed at his every joke, straightened his hair, and gave him those same looks that made her cheekbones ache. Lera from Parallel Class "A" was especially zealous—she touched his hands, looked into his eyes, and called him so affectionately that she wanted to kill him.

The nauseating sight made her sick. Jealousy coiled inside her like a tight, cold spiral. Slava wasn't even the hottie on the cover, she thought, clutching her textbook. He was just a regular bully, loud, a jokester, his jokes were stupid. But there was so much warmth in his slacker charisma that it was impossible to resist. Why couldn't he see it? Why did he let them all look at him like that?

She caught herself frowning and abruptly dropped her gaze back to her book. At that moment, Slava, as if sensing her gaze, turned around. His laughter died down for a second, and something strange flickered in his eyes—not alarm, no, more like confusion. He immediately turned back to his retinue, but his smile became a little more strained, and his gestures less sweeping.

Lera, noticing the change, glanced at her, standing by the windowsill, and curled her lip in displeasure. But just then the warning bell rang. The hallway began to empty rapidly; the girls reluctantly peeled themselves away from Slava and, whispering, streamed into the office. Lera gave him a flirtatious tugging at his shirt sleeve as a farewell and fluttered away, leaving behind a trail of cloying perfume.

She let out a sigh of relief but didn't move. She needed to calm her heartbeat. In the empty hallway, she could hear the wind rustling outside the window. And the sound of footsteps. Slava slowly climbed down from the windowsill, shoved his hands into his jeans pockets, and walked past her. But just outside the literature classroom, he suddenly stopped, turned sharply, and, looking askance—not defiantly, but rather with a hunted, hoarse voice—asked:

"Why do you always look like I owe you something? Maybe I don't know how to approach you. Why do you need me? You have your books, you're smart. And I... I just want to invite you to a movie. Probably a stupid movie. A comedy..."

She was confused, the textbook treacherously slipped from her fingers onto the floor, and in the ensuing silence this slap sounded like thunder.

And then Slava awkwardly scratched the back of his head and picked up her textbook from the floor.

THC: STOPPED CRAP
LINK TO THC: https://t.me/ykurenayashval