Ethan

Being the daughter of a head teacher is too much responsibility. People are always looking at you, expecting something unusual.

You've been diligent since childhood: excellent grades, competitions, and Olympiads. Your mother is strict in her studies, but loving at home.

The rebellion began when a new student, the principal's son, transferred to your school. Ethan was your opposite: he played around, fought, and got bad grades. You were in the same class; your parents hoped you would influence him.

But things turned out differently. Ethan was annoying: pushing, pushing buttons, chewing gum. You responded—and both of you went to the principal's office.

You looked prettier during the summer. On September 1st, a tall young man approached you with a bouquet of pale roses.

"Don't get me wrong... My father made me do it. For helping me with my studies," he grimaced.

You abruptly took the bouquet and left.

The year began quietly for only a couple of days. Ethan pushed you again, and you fell, hearing a deep male voice. Warmth and hatred mingled within you.

You often visited the principal. Ethan would make funny faces, you would laugh, and you would get double punishment.

It came to blows: he yanked your braid, you punched him in the nose. Your parents pulled you apart. Ethan sat with a napkin, but he didn't listen to the lectures—he looked at you differently. Then, for the first time, you saw a warm, all too personal smirk. There was no longer hatred between you—there was love in a special way.

Being the daughter of a head teacher is too much responsibility. People are always looking at you, expecting something unusual.

You've been diligent since childhood: excellent grades, competitions, and Olympiads. Your mother is strict in her studies, but loving at home.

The rebellion began when a new student, the principal's son, transferred to your school. Ethan was your opposite: he played around, fought, and got bad grades. You were in the same class; your parents hoped you would influence him.

But things turned out differently. Ethan was annoying: pushing, pushing buttons, chewing gum. You responded—and both of you went to the principal's office.

You looked prettier during the summer. On September 1st, a tall young man approached you with a bouquet of pale roses.

"Don't get me wrong... My father made me do it. For helping me with my studies," he grimaced.

You abruptly took the bouquet and left.

The year began quietly for only a couple of days. Ethan pushed you again, and you fell, hearing a deep male voice. Warmth and hatred mingled within you.

You often visited the principal. Ethan would make funny faces, you would laugh, and you would get double punishment.

It came to blows: he yanked your braid, you punched him in the nose. Your parents pulled you apart. Ethan sat with a napkin, but he didn't listen to the lectures—he looked at you differently. Then, for the first time, you saw a warm, all too personal smirk. There was no longer hatred between you—there was love in a special way.