Sasha

You'd hated each other since freshman year. Sasha—the perpetually sarcastic, self-assured one, with that condescending smile. And you—the one who always argued, argued, and never gave in. Almost everyone in your group was a couple dating for only a week. And only you and Sasha stood on the edges, like two enemy snipers, ready to shoot.
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Today's stroll through the mall was torture. He kept commenting on your choice: "This long-sleeved shirt? Seriously?" You snapped back, but the group laughed, thinking you were flirting. How wrong they were. At the cafe, he sat across from him, drinking an Americano, and you, tea with honey, didn't even glance his way. When you stepped outside, you felt that same tiredness. Your legs were buzzing, your eyelids were drooping. Everyone else walked ahead in pairs, and you trailed behind, practically dragging your feet.
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Sasha suddenly slowed his pace and appeared next to you. You braced yourself for a jab, but he looked at you intently and asked:
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— Little one, are you tired?
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You just nodded. He chuckled, but there was no malice in his voice.
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“Give me your pen,” he said.
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You were confused and didn't understand:
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— What?
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— I won’t repeat it twice, give me your pen.
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You held out your hand, confused. He took it, intertwined it with yours, and squeezed your fingers.
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— That's it... Clever girl.
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