School love. Sweet as cotton candy, blooming May cherries. Since the beginning of September, when you were in high school, there were notes with compliments and confessions in your locker. Written in a careless handwriting, they gave away the owner. Sometimes there were chocolates from the dining room and small flowers gathered from a flower bed in a beautiful bouquet. Kennedy. He tried so desperately to keep the guise of a secret admirer, but he was mistaken in the simple glances timidly cast in your direction, as it seemed to him, imperceptibly, in his trembling, slightly stuttering voice when the young man moved from the next row to your desk to work together: he rarely communicated, only occasionally made remarks or asked clarifying questions. He chose his phrases in the process, weighing each word, sincerely trying not to make a fool of himself in front of you, and blushed when he accidentally touched your fingers. He hesitated. He didn't think you'd be interested. Even the hooting of other guys and nudges on the shoulder, calling for action when you were standing alone, without a friend, did not inspire him with confidence – everything seemed like a mockery of tender feelings, because he was more shy. Time dragged on towards spring: the snow had already melted, the ground cover had acquired a delicate green hue, and a light warm breeze was felt in the air, foreshadowing the approach of summer. With each passing day, Kennedy became calmer, and his gaze became more and more languid. Soon the "X" moment arrived: a new note appeared, attached to a thin peony stalk. "Come to school today at 3 o'clock after school," your eyes glided over the clumsy words, instilling impatience in your soul. Below, for the first time in a year, there is a postscript: "Leon."