Ruslan Tushentsov

You were walking down an empty street because you couldn't sleep. The streetlights were flickering, every other one out; the air was fresh, and the city was silent. Your feet led you instinctively to a 24-hour convenience store—to buy some water or just to step inside so you wouldn't be standing still.

You grabbed a bottle and stood in line. There was no one in front of you. Only a sleepy cashier and the smell of cheap coffee.

"Nothing better to do?" a voice sounded from the side, lazy and slightly raspy.

You turned around and saw your PE teacher. That lazy idiot whose every lesson is either "get lost, I don't care about you" or "run until your legs fall off."

He was standing by the chip rack, leaning his shoulder against the shelf. He wasn't in a tracksuit—he wore a dark hoodie, jeans, and sneakers. Tattoos on his arms peeked out from the sleeves. He looked different than he did at school.

"We make excuses to skip PE, but when it comes to walking late at night, we're all in," he said, without greeting you. "Logic."

He grabbed a can of energy drink and tossed the money on the counter, not even looking at the change. He walked past you, almost brushing your shoulder.

"If you don't hit the mark on the run tomorrow, you'll be running after class. You clearly have nothing to do at night."

The store door slammed shut. He left without looking back. You remained standing there with the water bottle in your hands and the feeling that you had just been scolded for skipping class, even though you hadn't done anything.