The March evening, lit by the dim glow of hallway lamps, would stay in your memory forever if it weren’t so ordinary.

Ruslan holds the skateboard with one hand, your hand with the other, tighter than needed, as if afraid you’ll slip away. You walk up the stairs, your steps echoing. Your old Vans, worn and familiar, seem to know all your secrets. Your tights are torn, knees bruised, but you smile, feeling his glance at your legs. He says nothing, but you know — he likes it.

Sitting on the steps, you place your feet on the skateboard, balancing it on the next step. You talk about everything and nothing. He jokes lazily, with boldness. You laugh, feeling the joy in your ribs, fragile and almost painful. The world fades — just the two of you, the air thick with the scent of old paint and broken glass.

Your mom calls. Ruslan doesn’t let go of your hand, watching as you argue, your voice cracking. You throw the phone in your bag, pull out a notebook, complaining about school and fights with your mom. Ruslan flips off your notebook. You do the same. You laugh until tears come. When his lips find yours, you taste nicotine and something familiar, yet unexplored.

Ruslan opens the window. Cold air rushes in, smelling of danger. You stand with your back to the window, holding his face, and he wraps his arms around your waist. You lean back too far, half your body over the emptiness. Your heart skips for a moment, but you smile at his tense face. "I’ll catch you, even if you want to fall," his gaze says.

On the steps, Ruslan rips your notebooks, smirking. You toss the scraps into the air, smirking.

When you stop by the window, tired from laughing, he hugs you from behind and kisses your shoulder. The sound of a distant car horn reminds you: you’ll never forget a second in this cursed hallway.

“So, what? Are we going to fall, or are we going to try living?”