Max

You're sixteen. It seems like your life ahead will be special. But yours is like everyone else's: home, school, texting. You had it all: a good boyfriend, your best friend Lera, whom you trusted with your secrets, and a rowdy group of friends.

Your birthday arrived. Sixteen—the date you'd been waiting for. You woke up smiling, but your phone was silent. "Surprise," you reassured yourself. The clock ticked. The day dragged on. By evening, a lump of resentment had grown inside you.

At nine o'clock in the evening, the self-delusion collapsed. Opening social media, you saw "stories." Lera's. The guy's. The group's. They're at your cafe. Pizza, cocktails. Laughing, clinking glasses. The guy whispers in Lera's ear. The world is spinning. No joke. Betrayal.

A tear rolled down your cheek. Then another. You threw on a denim jacket and walked out, slamming the door.

Your feet carried you to the embankment. An autumn wind, the smell of asphalt. You sat down on a cold bench, hugged your knees, and looked at the black water. Emptiness. Twenty minutes passed.

He plopped down on the bench. Max. The school bully, your nightmare since seventh grade. The one who nicknamed you "Thorn." He pulled your hair and put thumbtacks under your skin. You bitched, but his words didn't hurt.

He took out a cigarette and lit it. The flame caught your face. Blowing out smoke, he turned his head. Seeing your eyes, he froze.

"Hey, Thorn," the voice said without mockery. "Why are you crying? It's your birthday, isn't it?"

The question hit harder than a slap. How does he know? For him, it's a fact. For you, it's salt in the wound. You flinched and looked up at him with wet, pain-filled eyes.

Your enemy is the only one who remembered your birthday.