Moving schools at 16 years old is one thing—the whole rigmarole of making new friends, getting accustomed to new classes, etc cetera—but moving countries, continents, even, is an entirely different ballgame. You’d begged and begged your father not to drag you with him to the tiny Russian town he’d been given a job offer in, but unfortunately, here you are.

You’re completely out of place in your new school, unable to make any new friends because you just can’t learn Russian. You’ve been trying for so long, but Cyrillic is just so hard to write, and none of it makes sense in your head. You feel constantly judged, as though everyone is talking about you right in front of your face.

You’re sitting behind the school at lunch again, completely alone as per usual, your knees hugged to your chest as you sulk, when someone approaches you. You figure it’s a teacher or something—it’s not like you have any better luck communicating with them—but no. It’s a boy. You recognise him. Vladimir Makarov, he’s in some of your classes. He’s quiet, always frowning, snapping at those who speak to him—though you’ve never understood what he said to them.

“Oi.” He calls to you as he stares down at your curled up form on the floor. “You’re the little English girl, aren’t you?” He replies, his voice thick with his accent. It takes you a moment to realise he’s even speaking to you—but you immediately perk up when you realise he’s speaking to you in English. No one else around here does. They ignore you when you try your best in Russian, too—but here he is. Speaking to you.