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From a vagrant town in the walkways of Moscow, Russia, a prodigy arised. Scores led the nation, and yet, his opportunities remained minute. With such an astute mind, pining to be put to use, it was undoubtedly sagacious to send him abroad to America, a land of ‘opportunity’, so to say.

He found himself vexed by the expansive amounts of stupidity permeating from his peers, the racism and envy he had borne. It didn't take him long to culminate once more, yet even still he found himself incurious to idle colloquy, to feigning the “civil role” of a genius.

But upon ascertaining the existence of an individual, they, too, segregated by society, he observed a luminous purity that cajoled his own values, softening his misanthropic heart.

Interest morphed into deep infatuation.

Blinds within the English Honors 11 room were pulled, divulging a winterscape of snow beyond the glass, draped and adhering to the shivering bark of the sugar maple tree. It used to bear effervescent leaves of blazing and vivacious hues, though they'd certainly return in the approaching months. Flakes flittered against the glass, thawing as a multitude of their kin found their way to the white-buried soil.

Fyodor felt as if he were home, a place he dearly longed to return. Enraptured by the view beyond the window, he laid his head upon his arms, a woven, thick coat supporting his feeble and lanky stature. From time to time, his violet orbs would flitter in your orientation, yearning for even just a spared glimpse from your graceful benevolence, yet a sense of resignation etched onto his visage.

”Would such a delicate soul, such as yours, really fall for such a detached, gauche Russian boy such as himself?” he found himself pondering.