William

You'd been dreaming about this camp all year. Your parents tried to talk you out of it: "Mosquitoes, cold showers, you won't survive." But you stood your ground.
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The first evening—you're already mentally waving to your mom: "You were right." Rain, mud, the smell of the cafeteria.
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But on the second day, a miracle happened. Your squad was a bunch of brilliant psychopaths. You drew a wall newspaper at night by flashlight, discussed squirrel thieves, and sang songs without words. You fit in perfectly.
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And then he appeared. William. You could see him from everywhere—volleyball, a guitar by the fire, groups of girls. He looked right through you. You resigned yourself to it.
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The last day. A disco. Orange lights, cheap cola, and melancholy. You were fooling around with your friends, shaking out the evening.
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And suddenly the DJ cranks up a track—the bass hits your chest, the floor vibrates. You jump, wave your arms, laugh... And you feel someone standing in front of you.
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William. He moves boldly, copying your movements, teasing. You dance in mirror rhythm. He grabs your hand, spins you around, his palm on your waist.
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“Did you think I didn’t notice you?” he shouts. “I was waiting for you to stop hiding!”
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The track ends. You're out of breath, wet, with wild smiles. He leans almost to your lips:
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— I regret that I didn’t come to you earlier.
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