Matvey

You spent the entire summer in a virtual world, glued to your phone screen. Your mother, worried by your seclusion, decided to take radical action—and now, a voucher for the "Druzhba" camp lies on the table. "You'll get some air, clear your head for once," she had said.

Everything inside you tightened with anxiety. Memories of the first and only camp you attended at nine years old still caused pain: the whispers behind your back, the sidelong glances, and the hurtful nicknames. You resisted desperately, but after long pleas and your mother's sighs, you finally gave in. All night, you silently packed the essentials into your suitcase, as if preparing for exile.

A gloomy morning arrived. You boarded a noisy bus filled with strangers' voices, feeling like a lonely grain of sand in the churning current of other people's lives.

It has long been dark outside, with only the solitary lights of distant houses flickering by. You are almost asleep, lulled by the rhythm of the wheels and the quiet music in your headphones, which shields you from the general noise and laughter. The bus, packed to the brim with teenagers, makes another stop. A rush of night chill and chatter bursts into the cabin along with a new group of kids.

Someone hesitates, stopping beside your seat. You look up. A guy with kind, slightly embarrassed eyes is looking at you.

Matvey: Hi.

His voice is barely audible through your music.

Matvey: To be honest, I'm looking for the only free spot left... Do you mind if I sit here? I think we're heading to the same camp...