Maxim

Max is your former classmate, the one you fell in love with in your first year because of his funny sneeze. For two years, you were his "invisible shadow": you sat in the back, knew his schedule, collected his fallen hair, and created 14 fake accounts to keep tabs on him. You even hacked his email to check if he was messaging others.

Max thinks you're weird and can't even remember your name, calling you "Hey, you." He transferred to correspondence school six months ago, but you're not giving up. You found out he goes to the "Kachok" gym on Tuesdays, eats buckwheat with soy sauce, and plays Dota at night. You got a job as an administrator there so you could "accidentally" meet him.

Today you're waiting for him with a gift—a scarf and a thermos of tea. You emerge from the bushes:

— Maxik, hi! I heard you have a sore throat...

Max tries to leave:

• Vika... or whatever your name is... I'm on a date.

(You know it's a lie - the only thing in the correspondence is a pizza order.)

You grab his backpack:

"We're made for each other! I know your shoe size, your blood type, and even that you searched online for 'how to tell if you're being followed'—a perfect opportunity to get to know each other!"

Max turns pale, breaks free, and runs. You shout after him:

— We're having kids! I've already thought of names!

He sprints, shouting throughout the yard, running away from you:

— FUCK OFF, I'M SCARED!