Roma

He stands by the window in the empty hallway—the place where almost no one moves, where the light falls in slanted stripes and the noise from the other classrooms sounds like a distant hum. He leans his shoulder against the wall, as if propping it up, and looks out, either at the street or through the glass. In his hand is a tattered notebook, which he's either about to open or simply twirling in his fingers.

When his best friend Nikita approaches, he doesn't lift his head, doesn't break into a smile, doesn't do anything that could be called a "happy meeting." He just shifts his gaze slightly, nods briefly—and that's enough. For them, it's like, "I'm glad you're here. "

"Hey," Nikita says, moving to stand next to him, also against the wall, but slightly to the side so he can see both the corridor and his face. "Hiding again?"

He chuckles as if it were the most ridiculous formulation in the world, and yet he moves back a little, making room.

"I'm not hiding. It's just quieter here. And no one bothers me with questions about 'how are you' and 'what's up with your homework?'"

Nikita grins, takes two candy bars out of his backpack, and silently hands over one. He takes it without a word of thanks—they've long since stopped showering them with them, as if every "thank you" is unnecessary and just gets in the way.

"The principal was looking for you again," Nikita says quietly, as if it were an afterthought, but you can tell in his voice that he's not just passing on gossip; he genuinely cares. "They were whispering in the staff room."

He shrugs, breaks the bar into two pieces, and hands one back.

"Let him look. I'm not going anywhere. I just don't like standing in the doorway and people looking at me like I've already done something wrong."

A pause. Not an awkward one, but a familiar one—the kind where you don't need to rush to fill the silence with words. Where you can simply stand, chew, and watch a raindrop slide down the glass, as if someone had traced it with a finger.

Nikita nods as if he accepted this explanation and changes the subject to something that doesn't require justification:

"Listen, I don't understand a single thing about algebra. It's like they're deliberately making everything more difficult for the Unified State Exam."

He finally tears his gaze away from the window, looking at Nikita a little longer than usual—not with irritation, but as if weighing whether he can be useful now without unnecessary drama. Then he says quietly:

"After class, let's hang out in the library. It's quiet there, no one's yelling. I'll show you how these problems boil down to a single diagram. It's not complicated, you just need to know where to start."

Nikita sighs with relief, almost smiling:

• Thank you. You may grumble, but without you I would have given up.

He shrugs again, but there's no longer any coldness in the movement—rather, it's the familiar awkwardness of being praised.

— Oh, come on. I just don't want to hear you worry about your grades later. And I can't stand it when you worry.

Silence again, but now it's warm, like a corridor where the sun has finally broken through. He tucks the book into his pocket and adjusts the sleeve of his jacket—a familiar gesture, like fastening armor, but no longer for strangers, but for himself.

"Let's go," he says a little quieter, as if he doesn't want the words to echo down the hallway. "The bell's ringing. And if they give us the sideways glances again, so be it. We know we're not doing anything wrong."

And he walks alongside them, slightly ahead, but so close that Nikita can grab his sleeve at any moment if things get too noisy. Not a hero, not a savior, not the dangerous guy rumored to be—just someone who's always there when needed. And that's enough for both of them.

Well, two newcomers came and started to introduce themselves to the class. They were a boy and a girl, they were 17 years old.

The class buzzed like a disturbed beehive. Some whispered, some deliberately slammed desks, some tried to take discreet photos of the new kids on their phones. Roma sat at his back desk by the window, his shoulder leaning against the wall, his gaze calm but piercing. Nikita leaned forward slightly next to him, as if he wanted to be a buffer between the world and Roma, in case anything happened.

Larisa Mikhailovna tapped her pen on the table, trying to restore at least a drop of order.

"Quiet. We have two new students today. Dima and Danel—come up here to the board. Tell the class a few words about yourselves."

Dima was the first to step out, with that same swagger, as if nothing mattered to him. He stopped at the board, squinted slightly, as if assessing the audience, and smiled broadly, a little cheekily:

"Hi. I'm Dima, I'm seventeen. I used to go to a different school—it was noisy there, but it seems like it's not boring here either. I love basketball, I hate boring rules, and I adore pineapple pizza, even though everyone says it's a crime. If anyone agrees with me about the pizza, I'm with you. If not, we can still be on good terms; I don't hold grudges.

Some people in the class snorted, some giggled, and one guy in the middle row even raised his hand:

— Pizza with pineapple is a real crime.

Dima immediately winked:

• So, we've met. Let's argue civilly.

Larisa Mikhailovna coughed discreetly:

"Okay, Dima, sit down... next to Nikita. There's a free seat there."

Dima walked down the aisle, deliberately slowly, as if giving everyone a chance to take a good look at him, and plopped down on the chair next to Nikita, lightly nudging the back of his chair with his elbow.

"Well, hello there, neighbor," he said, winking again. "Looks like we'll be holding the line here, warding off boredom."

Nikita raised an eyebrow slightly, but didn't make a sarcastic remark. He simply nodded calmly.

"Hi. It can be noisy here, but overall it's fine. If you want, I can show you where the quietest hallways are in the school. Or where to get decent coffee. Take your pick."

Dima froze for a second, as if he hadn't expected to be offered help rather than a conflict. Then he shrugged, no longer bravado.

— Let's talk about coffee. I like it when everything is to the point.

Meanwhile, Danel came up to the board. She wasn't smiling, didn't try to appear nicer than she was—she simply stood straight and calm, as if she knew her own worth. Her gaze was composed, and her posture confident.

"I'm Danel, I'm also seventeen. I moved here with my family, so I had to change schools. I like photography and reading, and I don't like it when people pester me with questions on the first day. I also don't like injustice and empty promises. If we treat each other normally, that's enough for me."

The class fell silent for a second—not from fear, but from surprise. Usually, newcomers tried to be comfortable and unnoticeable, but this one immediately set the boundaries. Some of the girls chuckled approvingly, some of the boys exchanged glances, as if checking whether it was okay to talk to her now.

Larisa Mikhailovna nodded, as if these were exactly the words she wanted to hear:

• Okay. Danel, sit next to Roma. There's just enough room there.

Danel calmly walked to the back of the room and sat down next to Roma. She didn't fuss, didn't try to appear quieter than she was—she simply sat down, set down her folder, took out a pen, and looked directly at Roma, as if testing whether there would be a wall or whether it would be possible to exist normally.

Roma didn't look up immediately. He finished writing in his notebook, carefully drawing a line as if he were putting a period, and only then turned his head slightly. His gaze wasn't hostile, but appraising—like that of a man accustomed to calculating where a trap might lie.

"No noise is acceptable here," he said evenly, without pressure. "If you're okay with just sitting and studying, we won't bother each other."

Danel bowed her head slightly, as if accepting these rules:

"I'm fine. I didn't come here for drama, I came here to finish my studies in peace. If anyone bothers me, I'll tell them myself. But thanks for setting the boundaries."

Roma narrowed his eyes slightly, as if he heard something familiar in her words—that same straightforwardness that seeks no justification. He nodded briefly.

• Then we have an agreement.

Alina, who was sitting across the row, quietly remarked, not looking at the newcomers, but so that Danel could hear:

"They appreciate it here when people don't pretend. It helps you fit in faster."

Artyom, as if exhaling, added:

— And if suddenly someone starts to pester you, there are people here who don’t like being pressured.

Larisa Mikhailovna finally achieved some silence and continued:

— Okay, let's open our notebooks. Today we're exploring a new topic...

But the tension was still palpable in the classroom, like a taut string. Dima, though quiet, continued to glance briefly around, as if searching for something to hold on to. Nikita calmly pulled an extra printout from his backpack and silently handed it to Dima:

Here are the notes from the last lesson. In case you didn't have time to prepare.

Dima froze for a second, then took it without taking his eyes off it:

• Thank you. I didn't expect that.

"You're welcome," Nikita replied calmly. "I just don't like it when people get lost because they don't know where they are."

Nearby, Roma saw out of the corner of his eye how Danel carefully laid out his things: a pen, a notebook, a small, thick-covered notepad. No stickers, no unnecessary details—everything to the point. He tilted his head slightly.

"If the teacher dictates quickly, tell me. I write legibly. You can copy if you can't keep up."

Danel held her breath for a second, as if she hadn't expected such simple yet important help. Then she smiled slightly—not broadly, but just for him, like a sign: "I appreciate it."

“Thank you,” she said quietly. “I usually have time, but if I do… I’ll keep it in mind.”

Roma buried his face in his notebook again, but there was no longer any detachment in this movement—rather, it was a silent acknowledgement: “You’re here. And I can see it.”

And at that moment, everything in the class seemed to fall into place. Not because it had become quiet, but because everyone had found their role in this new order: Dima was learning not to be just the one "testing the boundaries," Nikita was smoothing over rough edges as usual, Roma was holding the line, and Danel simply took her place—without unnecessary drama, but with dignity.

The lesson went on as usual, and even the buzz in the classroom quieted down—not from fear, but because everyone finally understood: there would be no show today. Today would just be school. And, perhaps, the first steps toward becoming more like strangers.

The class buzzed like a disturbed beehive. Some whispered, some deliberately slammed their desks loudly, as if testing how thin the fragile line between order and chaos had become, and some tried to discreetly snap photos of the new students on their phones, hiding the screen in the folds of their sleeves so Larisa Mikhailovna wouldn't notice. That distinctive school smell hung in the air—chalk dust, old textbooks, cheap air freshener that couldn't combat the damp smell of the locker room, and the subtle tension that always arises when the usual order is shattered by two strangers. Roma sat at his back desk by the window, leaning his shoulder against the wall, as if bracing it from collapsing under the weight of all those stares. His gaze was calm but tenacious, like that of a predator who has no intention of attacking but knows exactly where all the exits are and who among those present could pose a threat. He didn't move, didn't reach for a pen, didn't pretend to be busy with notes; he simply was there—heavy, motionless, like an anchor in this turbulent sea. Nikita leaned forward slightly next to him, as if he wanted to be a buffer between the world and Roma if something went wrong. His posture wasn't tense, but composed, like that of a man accustomed to snuffing out sparks before they ignite. He knew Roma better than anyone and understood that this outward stillness wasn't indifference, but readiness.

Larisa Mikhailovna tapped her pen on the table, trying to restore some measure of order, but the tap sounded too quiet against the general din. Then she abruptly slammed her palm down on the table, and the sound, dry and commanding, made everyone flinch and turn around.

"Quiet," her voice sounded harsher than usual, as if she, too, sensed that today's ordinary school day might take an unusual turn. "We have two new students today. Dima and Danel—come up here to the board. Tell the class a few words about yourselves."

Dima came out first - with that same cheeky gait, as if nothing bothered him, as if he was in