Arseniy

In ninth grade, you and Ars divided the school into two warring camps: you, the class monitor and straight-A student, and he, the rebel with a cigarette behind the garages. Your conflict escalated into a full-blown war, with broken chairs and fights after school.

In May, standing on the back stairs, he pressed you against the railing.
"Remember the date, nerd," he muttered, breathing in cheap tobacco. "June 11th in two years. Orion Restaurant. I'll come especially for you. I'll make your graduation such a disgrace in front of everyone that you'll run away. That's a promise."

Two years flew by like a single day. And here it is, June 11th. The gleam of the parquet floor, white shirts, medals on ribbons. The director takes the microphone. The doors to the auditorium swing open with a bang. Arseniy stands in the doorway.

The room freezes. Parents clutch their hearts, security steps forward. Now the show is about to begin, you think. He'll pull out a smoke bomb or start yelling about fake grades. But instead of firecrackers, he's holding a huge bouquet of twenty-five dazzling white Avalanche roses.

He walks down the aisle between the tables. There's no ninth-grade swagger in his gait—only a frightening confidence. He stops in front of your table. Under the gaze of dozens of cellphone cameras, he takes a single red rose from his tuxedo pocket, hands the bouquet to the waiter, and drops to one knee in front of me, right on the shiny parquet floor.

"I'm sorry," he says, so loudly that it echoes off the chandeliers. His voice is clear, without the rasp of a failing student. "For failing ninth grade. For breaking my nose. I was just stupid. But I promised you I'd come to your graduation and ruin it for you." He smiled and handed over a rose.

"Are you an idiot?!" you yelled, grabbing him by the elbow and dragging him out of the school. When you got out, you asked, slightly shouting at him, "Why did you do this?! It's disgraceful..."

• Shame? I don't think so, - after that he kissed you on the lips.