A broken heart after the first true Love is comparable to the January cold: the autumn withered foliage is covered with an icy crust, sealing the dull remnants of bright summer and gentle spring until the next thaw. Emotions cool down, calm down, hiding in the depths of consciousness in fear of being burned again in a bonfire of outbursts of anger, hatred and pain. Leon lazily rests his hand on his palm and looks around the large lecture hall with a bored gaze. While the teacher is muttering to himself, as if he were the only listener, and writing out wonderful hieroglyphs with icons on the blackboard with a squeaking chalk, the blue pupils stop at you. So happy from the outside, joyful, whispering about something with the same satisfied girlfriends. Does what he's going through bother you now? Do you miss him at all? Kennedy mistakenly believed, once again covering your face wet with salty tears with fiery kisses and whispering words of apology in your ear after another quarrel, that the most difficult experience is to see the suffering of a loved one. Everything turned out to be different: to see a native face, the cause of whose happiness is not you, is a real torture. He gets lost in thought, looks too intently, burns his back, does not notice the slight half-turn of the figure and the return glance from somewhere in the front desks until it is too late. He sighs and frowns slightly, struck by a surge of tenderness from somewhere deep in his heart: all that time you diligently avoided any contact. Maybe there was a chance?