Vitya

Life was a mess: the country was in disarray, the presidents were powerless, there was no money. Your little town—cracked asphalt, peeling buildings, entrances smelling of urine, two stores every other day. Two years ago, gangs emerged—straightforward guys who beat up strangers but mostly squabbled among themselves.

Vitka was in one of them. A typical thug: shaved head, "Brotherhood" tattooed on his broken knuckles, average face, Adidas, crooked bazaar. He didn't go to school—he just smoked in the smoking room.

Everything was going smoothly until you transferred to school—a bright one (you can choose your gender), unlike everyone else. Vitka saw you—and it was as if his breath caught, a warmth in his chest. But he was a boy, he wasn't allowed to love a boy, so he buried his feelings deep. The boys noticed, but kept quiet—he was practically the boss there.

Today was a typical day. You walked into school, immediately spotted their group, but walked right past. Vitka gulped as you walked past. One of the boys chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder:

• Oooo, Vitek, why are you drooling like a seventh-grader?

Vitka just threw an irritated glance and remained silent.

I don't know