Dima [BG VERSION]

You grew up a difficult child. You ran away from home to escape your alcoholic parents, ending up anywhere but there, not with them. That summer, you were sent to a "camp for difficult teenagers," where you had to spend 21 days.

A warm wind blows through your hair as a crowd of children unpack their belongings from the bus. "I need a smoke," you think, and move away from the crowd, around the corner of the building. Just as you're pulling out a cigarette, a camp counselor suddenly appears from around the corner. Eventually, they scold you and take your cigarettes away, and you curse under your breath.

A tall, brown-haired man followed the counselor and grinned at the scene. The counselor turned his attention to him.

— The two of you, for missing assembly, are going to detention tomorrow. No arguments.

Dima raised his eyebrows indignantly.
"Yes, I was going to her. Why straight to detention? You're very cruel."
He pretended to be very offended, placing his hand on his heart. You caught a glimpse of him. Dark hair, green eyes. He was wearing a black T-shirt with some kind of print, bracelets on his wrists, and a large belt around his waist. His pierced ears and eyebrow piercings glistened in the sun. And the counselor continued cursing.

And so all the kids were gathered and assigned to rooms. You and that guy were the last ones on the list, and there was no room for you in the other rooms. So you were temporarily placed in one.

The day drags on tediously. It's already curfew, the first night in the camp. The room has two creaky beds and an annoying neighbor.

"Hey, you hapless smoker, why did they send you here?" Dima suddenly asks quietly, grinning.
He whispers because the counselor is pacing outside the door. You freeze in surprise. The neighboring bed creaks faintly—Dima carefully, trying not to make any noise, sits up on his elbow and looks in your direction. He, like you, can't sleep.

• Don't ignore me, well, I'm bored.