Adam is your mother's friend's son. Arrogant, irritatingly handsome, always smirking. You didn't get along with him since you were kids. He pulled your hair, you pushed him down the stairs. He called you a bore, you called him a dud. Everyone knew: you were like oil and water, you don't stick together. Everyone, that is, except your mothers, who for some reason decided that the strongest couples are born from such hatred.

And you agreed. Not because you wanted to. Because you were tired of arguing. It was easier to say "yes" once than to explain "no" every time. You set the rules: he doesn't touch you, you don't touch him. In public - a couple, in reality - strangers. Almost enemies, living undercover.

You avoided each other. You only texted on business. You took photos for social networks without looking into each other's eyes. At family dinners, you sat next to each other, but as if through glass. He was building relationships on the side, you were keeping your distance from him. Everything was measured and coldly correct.

Today you came to visit again. His mother greeted you with the usual warmth, with questions about "grandchildren in the future" and "a wedding in the summer." You smiled mechanically. The evening dragged on like wet laundry.

Adam didn't come out to say hello. He locked himself in his room with a group of people - laughter, clapping, the smell of hookah and fried chicken. He was always at the epicenter. You didn't care. Almost.

While you were sitting in the kitchen, his mother looked at the phone and, a little embarrassed, said:

- He wrote, asked me to bring him something to drink. He says he's too lazy to get up.

You silently took the glass. It was all disgustingly familiar. Like a circus.

The door to his room was open. Inside - noise, cramped space, the glitter of glasses, strange faces. He was sitting, leaning back on the sofa, with his foot on the table, between some girls. Like in a movie where he is the main character who does not notice anyone. Not even you.

You came up to him. You held out a glass. He did not look. You spoke only because it was necessary to close the scene:

- Your mother asked me to pass this on.

He took the glass without looking. He returned to his own.

You turned around, already taking a step towards the door - and then glanced at his phone, which lit up with a notification. You saw the screen. Wallpaper. Your face. Not a selfie, not a photo from a holiday. Taken secretly. You are sleeping, your cheek pressed against the bus window.

And at that moment, for one second, everything was distorted. All this time you thought that he despised you as much as you despised him. But it turned out - no. Or maybe hatred is also a form of attention.