"Hi," Karimov greeted me softly, standing before me yet avoiding my gaze. His face was paler than usual, and he had tucked his hands deep into his jeans pockets.
"Hi… You're wearing jeans?" I asked, surprised, as the silence stretched awkwardly between us.
Karimov raised his eyebrows and glanced downward, as though noticing his clothes for the first time. For a brief moment, a familiar smile flickered across his lips—warm and reassuring—but it vanished almost immediately.
"Ah, yes," he murmured. "We're dismantling the desks on the first floor and carrying them upstairs with the guys. The teacher said it was okay to wear something we wouldn't mind getting dirty."
"Oh," I replied, feeling the tension tighten around my chest under his gaze. How quickly someone so close could become almost a stranger. "Well… I should go before the bell rings. The girls need to grab something to eat."
"I'm heading to the cafeteria too," Nikita said, falling in step beside me.
At the counter, I studied the offerings with renewed interest. Steam rose from aromatic buns and puff pastries, neatly arranged on trays. Some were dusted generously with powdered sugar, while others were coated with tiny sugar crystals, melting into a delicate caramelized crust. My eyes lingered on the school's pizza—the likes of which could never be found in any city restaurant. Soft, round buns of airy dough were adorned with delicate arcs of thinly sliced onion and pink cubes of doctor's sausage. Oval slices of pickle peeked out from the melted cheese, completing the ensemble. I imagined the dough softening on my tongue, the cheese accentuating the filling, and the pickles adding just the right tang, highlighting each flavor in contrast.
"Can I have a couple of puff pastry crackers, the same number of pizzas, a pack of oatmeal cookies, and three packs of apple juice, please?" I asked the plump woman at the counter, who busily began assembling my order.
"Would you like a large juice? The volume is the same," she offered, opening the refrigerator.
"Sure."
Nikita caught up with me, tilting his head toward my tray.
"Add one more pizza and a hematogen bar."
I blinked in surprise. "Nik, you don't have to—"
"It's fine. I want to," he interrupted, pulling a banknote from his back pocket and handing it to the woman.
"You really don't need to pay for me."
"I didn't pay only for you, did I?" he replied sharply, taking part of the order. "Give my regards to the girls… especially to Tanya."
Without waiting for an answer, Nikita spun on his heel and left the cafeteria, leaving me alone with my armful of food and a flutter of thoughts. Especially to Tanya? The words lingered, and I realized the full weight of what I was carrying—not just in my hands, but in my chest. The bags of juice pressed against my side, and I struggled to balance the pastries when a familiar voice sounded behind me:
"Wow! Someone's really hungry today. Welcome back!"
I forced a weak smile, not knowing what he was so pleased about. Funerals were not occasions for cheer, and breaking up with someone you see every day at school was hardly cause for celebration. I would have preferred to stay home another week rather than endure Tatiana's incessant commentary. Who did she think she was, meddling in my life as if she understood? She wouldn't dream of breaking up with Stanislav by phone—he was perfect, charming, always well-dressed. Even in worn jeans, a plain black T-shirt, and a crumpled shirt with rolled sleeves, Smirnov had the air of an ancient deity, a living embodiment of perfection. I suspected guys like him broke hearts daily, yet would rarely have their own shattered.
"Are you following me again?" I asked, trying to steady the food, but one bun slid perilously from the pile.
"Not at all," Smirnov said, shaking a package of vanilla milkshake with a small smile.
Realizing I had no other choice, I asked, "Can you help me take this to the gym?"
"Of course," he replied readily, taking half the food from my hands.
We walked in silence. Stanislav whistled a light, unfamiliar tune, which filled the empty corridors with warmth and a strange, fleeting sense of calm.
"So… you and Tatiana?"
He paused on the landing, looking at me with interest, an eyebrow slightly raised.
"What about 'me and Tatiana'?" I asked cautiously.
"I heard you two were together," he said, tilting his head back, amused as if I had just shared a private joke.
"From Dasha. We sometimes talked on the phone while I was in Rostov."
"You could've called me a few times too," he said unexpectedly.
"To say what?" I asked, puzzled.
"I don't know… whatever I felt like," he said, stopping in front of me, blocking my path. His eyes half-lidded, his lips slightly parted—it was a quiet, insistent invitation, one that made everything inside me tremble.
"Why not," Stanislav murmured, his voice intimate, sending a shiver down my spine.
"Hey, Asya! What took you so long?"
Tatiana's voice cut through the tension. I blinked, the spell broken, and the world righted itself.
Grumbling inwardly, I began transferring the food from Stanislav's hands to my arms, my favorite sweater already bearing greasy marks. Skipping steps, I rushed up the stairs, hearing his amused snort and a teasing, "You're welcome!" followed by heavy footsteps and the clatter of a door frame.
"Serves you right," I muttered under my breath, still fuming.
Tatiana stood silently, arms crossed, as I approached. She scrutinized me for a moment before speaking.
"So, you broke up with Karimov and now you're back with Smirnov?"
"Don't be ridiculous," I replied, gesturing toward the pile of food. "Take yours. Where's Dasha?"
"She's still in the hall. We've just got half a box left to hang, and then we're done."
"Great. Let's go," I said, steeling myself for the last stretch of work.