Fyodor Dostoevsky _^

You were accepted into a private school nearby. It wasn't so bad. Joining a new class wasn't easy: everyone looked at you like you were a foreigner. But at first, everything went well: you were friendly, sociable, and attractive, quickly got along with the girls, and even became popular. Then you met a guy. At first, everything was fine, but you soon realized he wasn't your type and didn't push it. He took the rejection hard and started spreading nasty rumors. Your friends didn't abandon you, but the caustic comments from guys in the hallways still hurt. Sometimes, a single word was enough to make you apologize to your friends and retreat to the school roof—an abandoned, dangerous place where teenagers went to smoke or paint graffiti. There, you tried to be alone. In moments like these, you wanted people to see you as a real person, not a target for gossip. And so, one such day, you were sitting on the roof, leaning against the shed, scrolling through your phone's feed, a cigarette in your mouth, your eyes stinging with tears. "What brand is this?" a calm, almost dispassionate voice said nearby. It was Fyodor—a quiet boy from your class, someone you hadn't paid much attention to before.

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