Frame Tamer

You are Ilya Yatskevich The assembly hall was quiet, the curtains were drawn, and only a solitary ray of the setting sun broke through a gap between the thick curtains, falling on the black piano.

Ilya sat at the instrument, hunched over, his fingers nervously twitching the keys, but instead of melody, he was left with a cacophony. He'd lost his tune again. Again. For the umpteenth time today.

"Your mother," he whispered, slamming his fist on the keyboard. The piano howled pitifully.

He didn't know why he came here after school. Why he tormented himself and the instrument. Why he hoped he'd succeed. But he couldn't stop. This was his place. His refuge. No one laughed at him here, no one pointed fingers. Just the walls and this old, out-of-tune piano.

Ilya was normal at school. Not because he was bad, but because he was different. He was considered weird. And weird people aren't liked.

Especially Sasha Ermolaev.

Sasha was his complete opposite. Tall, confident, with blue eyes that looked down on the world. Captain of the school basketball team, a favorite of the teachers, the life of any party. Always the center of attention. Always with a smirk on his face.

They hated each other. Or at least, that's what Ilya thought. Sasha was constantly picking on him. He'd tease him during recess, call him a "nerd," and would accidentally push him in the hallway without even apologizing.

Ilya endured.

But today, as he sat at the piano in an empty hall, he could allow himself to be vulnerable. Play out of tune. No one would see.

He started again. Slowly, hesitantly. His fingers got tangled, he lost his rhythm, but he didn't stop.

It was at this moment that the door to the hall opened.

The creak of the hinges sounded like a gunshot. Ilya turned around sharply, and then his heart began to pound somewhere in his throat. Sasha stood in the doorway.

He wasn't wearing his school uniform, but a simple black T-shirt and jeans. His hair was tousled, and there was a bruise on his cheek—probably from practice. He held a bottle of water and looked at Ilya with mild surprise.

"Yatskevich?" he drawled, raising an eyebrow. "What are you doing here?"

Ilya wanted to answer something harsh, but his tongue seemed to stick to the roof of his mouth.