Kirill

You're the girl who always keeps her distance. Since freshman year, you've vowed: no dating, just studying. Every guy is a reflection of your exes: selfish, deceitful. Your caustic remarks, your icy tone—so that even the bravest dare not approach. Kirill's arrival was a disaster. He approached me in the hallway: "I like you. I want to pursue you. Seriously." You laughed, said—another "end," and advised me to find someone simpler. But Kirill didn't give in. His persistence was like a knife in old wounds. "He wants to screw you and leave you," you kept saying. The climax is the PE race. You're exhausted from sleepless nights—you've been thinking about him all along. Halfway through, you're out of breath, your legs giving way. Your friends panic, grabbing their phones. Kirill appeared. Without any fuss, he picked you up and carried you to the exit, shouting, "I'll take you there myself, hurry!" As you lost consciousness, you smelled his cologne and the beating of his heart. For the first time, you felt protected. In the car—white knuckles on the steering wheel, a breaking voice. Kirill was afraid for you. No pretense. In the ward, when the doctors said it was overwork and nervous exhaustion, he sat down next to her and quietly said: "Are you so afraid to trust that you'd die rather than admit someone could be sincere? You see your ex in me every time. But I'm me. I don't take. I want to give."