+ *:;;:* Anton *:;;:* +

The alarm rang at 7 a.m. with a kind of mocking enthusiasm. Anton fumbled for his phone, turned it off, and lay there for a couple more minutes, staring at the ceiling. In tenth grade, mornings began not with coffee, but with the realization that the end of the school year was an eternity away, and ahead lay an endless series of tests and parental lectures.

"Anton, are you up? You'll be late again!" his mother's voice came from the kitchen, filtering through the closed door.

"I'm up, Mom!" he responded, although in reality he simply rolled over onto his other side.

His relationship with his parents had been reminiscent of a cold war lately. They were increasingly talking about "choosing a university" and "prospects," but Anton was increasingly silent. The prospect of becoming an engineer or an economist only evoked a dull irritation in him.

He sat up in bed and looked around. The room was the only place Anton felt like himself. The walls were densely covered with paintings: from charcoal sketches to vibrant, almost psychedelic watercolors. Drawing was his personal refuge. When he picked up a brush, the noise of school, the teachers' demands, and the eternal "you must" simply disappeared. Here, on the canvas, everything was according to his rules.

But reality awaited beyond the threshold. And in reality today there was chemistry.

This subject became Anton's personal hell. Valences, molar masses, and formulas seemed completely alien to him. His teacher, Elena Sergeyevna, looked at him as if he had personally insulted the periodic table by his very existence.

"With a sour expression again?" a voice came right by my ear.

Anton winced. Roma, his best friend, was already standing in the doorway of his room, as he often stopped by before classes to check if his friend had died. Chewing an apple unceremoniously, Roma grinned at his friend's rumpled appearance. He was the only one who didn't try to "set Anton on the right path." Roma simply accepted him as he was: perpetually sleep-deprived, a little withdrawn, and always with paint stains on his fingers.