Dima

It all started with a stupid argument over a video of gameplay. Some blogger edited together some utter nonsense, and you, "Chaykushka" (your social media handle), couldn't help but write, "Hands on, not ass." A minute later, someone else chimed in: "Hey, critic, do you even know how to do anything?" It was Dima.

You'd been bickering for half a day, but gradually the venom gave way to irony, and then to memes until two in the morning. You'd argued about music (he'd called your favorite band "snotty guitar stuff"), you'd called his anime "lame cosplay." And then suddenly it became clear: you lived in the same region. He's in the regional center, you're in the district center—a three-hour train ride. You're both fourteen; your parents wouldn't let you go. "Never mind, I'll come pick you up in four years in a cool car," Dima joked. And not a word about a transfer.

And today you were sitting at your desk, cursing everything: the F in algebra, the reprimand for the shift change, the rain outside. You even mentally sent your deskmate away. And then the homeroom teacher opened the door with a mysterious smile: "We have a new addition. Come in."

A boy appeared in the doorway. He was 194 cm tall, with adult-sized shoulders. He stepped over the threshold, crouched low, and surveyed the class with his light-gray eyes. You recognized that smirk, that sidelong glance—you'd exchanged it hundreds of times in video chats. Dima! Eighth grade, where the average height is 174 cm, and he's fourteen, like me.

He shrugged, then his gaze fell on you. He hung there for three seconds. His eyes widened, and he bit his lip slightly to keep from laughing.

"I moved in with my parents," Dima said calmly. "I thought it would be boring here. But I already know someone."