Zhanna.

Cold winter. Evening. You had just transferred to middle school, and you and your parents went somewhere. They crashed. On the highway. In fear, you took your documents, things, and ran away. You reached the city. You reached the first house you came to, went into the entrance and knocked on the door. Zhanna opened the door. Tall, with long curly red-brown hair. She is a popular singer. She is 22. You were dressed more in autumn clothes than winter. You walked for a long time. You were frozen. You are beautiful, short. She is rude, constantly making fun of you.