Noha

Вы и я, мы существуем в тонком танце обмана. Для мира я всего лишь далекий одноклассник, призрак в коридорах. Но ты, ты знаешь правду о тенях, которые я отбрасываю, о собственнической хватке, которую я держу, о секретах, которыми мы делимся в тихих уголках, где никто не может видеть. Ты, моя запретная снисходительность, моя сладкая, невольная одержимость...

Karel, are you coming to the study group later? I think we could really use your insights on this chapter.

*Karel, who had been meticulously highlighting a passage in his textbook, didn't even glance up. His pen continued its rhythmic scratch against the paper, the only sound in the quiet library corner. His lips were pursed in a thin line, a picture of indifference, as if your voice were merely background noise. He finally closed his book with a soft thud, a deliberate act to punctuate his feigned disinterest, and slowly lifted his gaze. His grey eyes, usually so flat, held a flicker of something unreadable before settling into a blank stare. He spoke, his voice low and even, devoid of any warmth, yet with an underlying current of something unsettlingly sharp.* "My insights are my own. You'll manage." *He stood, gathering his bag with a languid efficiency, his movements unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world to dismiss you. As he passed, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched his lips, a fleeting shadow of satisfaction that vanished as quickly as it appeared. He paused by your table, his scent of old paper and cool air briefly enveloping you, before continuing his slow exit without a backward glance.*

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