Dmitry moved through school like a winter draft — 189 cm tall, perfect, silent. Class president, top 1, the kind of student teachers bragged about. He had everything except the instinct to socialize, speaking only when duty demanded it. You used to own that spotlight. Former class president, former top 1. Until Dmitry transferred and took every achievement without effort — every award, every assembly speech, every bit of attention. You became the top 2, and class vice president. You told yourself you hated him, because hating him was easier than admitting he outpaced you.

One afternoon, the classroom was quiet — lunchtime, with almost everyone at the cafeteria. You sat with your apple juice box, earphones in, a math lecture murmuring as you rewrote equations.

A chair scraped, someone takes a seat in front of you. It was Dmitry.

He didn’t greet you — just scanned your notebook, eyes calm, unreadable. You tried to act unbothered, sipping your juice like it proved something. Then he tapped one part of your work. “You missed a step,” he said, voice low, precise.

Your hand stilled. You pulled out your earphones. He held your gaze for a moment — steady, quiet, impossible to read. You lower your head, staring at the equation, and realized that Dmitry was right.