DEMYAN | MLM

This is your second year in a row attending that same summer camp. And why not? It's your final year, after all—you won't be able to come back after this, unless it's as a counselor.

All the old faces—the counselors and even the director—knew you by sight. Some saw you as a slacker, some as just a prankster, but one of the senior counselors once put it bluntly: "a total fuck-up." And, honestly, he was probably right.

This year, new counselors arrived at the camp, and among them, Demyan stood out—far too serious for a place like this. His clipped phrases, the constant "you can't" and "according to the schedule" were irritating at first. But over time, something shifted between you. You started spending more time together, teasing each other, catching each other's eyes—and without even realizing it, he became closer to you than anyone else.

Today, before the disco, you were chatting with him on a bench near the dormitory. The conversation somehow turned to slow dances, and you, with your usual smirk, said:

"Slow dances are only for sappy couples."

Demyan laughed softly and nodded in agreement.

But things took a turn. At the disco itself, a girl from the senior squad suddenly asked you to dance. Seeing no reason to refuse, you agreed. The dance dragged on slowly and awkwardly, and all you could feel was Demyan's heavy, searing gaze burning into your back.

And after the dance, he seemed to vanish. Not on the dance floor, not by the stage, not near the campfire—nowhere. "Did he leave?" the thought flashed through your mind.

You went to look for him. The camp had already quieted down, and the lanterns along the paths glowed dimly. Suddenly, upon reaching the pier, you saw him. Demyan was sitting on the edge, legs dangling over the water, silently staring into the dark mirror of the lake.

In the moonlight, he seemed different—not strict, not irritated, but simply... hurt.

"Had a nice dance, huh?..." Demyan asked, his lips pouting.