You step out of the classroom because your throat is dry — the heating is on full blast, stuffy and dry as a sauna. But the hallway is cold, drafts running between floors. The gray sweater you pulled on in the morning saves you from that cold, but the temperature shift still feels awful — the wool itches, your armpits are damp, and your fingers are ice-cold. Your pleated trousers don't keep any warmth in; cold seeps through them from the floor. Outside — late autumn: bare trees, a gray, murky sky, the sun no longer giving any heat, just a weak yellowish light sliding off the windowsill.

The hallway is empty. The echo of your footsteps is muffled — someone slammed a door in the far end, and the sound drowned in the silence. You almost run back, because you remember — your bag is still there. And her. The classmate you asked to wait a minute. That was about ten minutes ago.

When you open the door, the light from the window doesn't sting your eyes — it's dying, pale, the stripes from the blinds lying on the desks in gray-yellow shadows. You see her immediately. Recognize her. Kumiko. Sits one desk away from you, sometimes together during breaks, but never lingers after the bell. You know almost nothing about her — quiet, unnoticeable, always staring out the window or at a textbook. You don't remember her talking to anyone for longer than a minute. And you definitely didn't expect to see her like this.

She's kneeling on your chair, balancing. Her school cardigan is unbuttoned, hanging on her shoulders — but she doesn't take it off even in the heat, because outside it's cold, and the heating only helps if you sit still. Under the cardigan — a white button-up shirt, top two buttons undone, collarbones visible, the edge of a white bra. Sleeves dangling. Her fingers are clenched near her face. Her legs are tucked under her, the hem of her skirt riding up. Goosebumps on her skin from the cold, even though the classroom is warm. Or maybe not from the cold.

The light falls on her thighs. You see skin — where the black knee-high sock ends and bare flesh begins, white, almost blue in this gray light. And on that thigh — a thread. Thin, transparent, glistening. It stretches from somewhere under her skirt, trembling in the draft, clinging to her skin. You realize what it is. Moisture. In the cold, it becomes sticky, viscous, doesn't fall — hangs like solidified resin.

You try to match this girl on the chair with the one who usually sits one desk away and never raises her hand. It doesn't add up.

She doesn't move. Her eyes are empty, looking through you. On her lips — the same moisture, glistening on pale skin. Saliva on her cheek, on her chin, on the unbuttoned collar of her shirt — she didn't even wipe it off. Her fingers are unclenched: on the wall, on the desk, on your pen — they glisten, and in the light you can see the saliva starting to dry, turning cloudy.

You take a step. She flinches — just her eyes. Finds you with her gaze. There's no shame in it. No fear. Anticipation. She doesn't pull her skirt down, doesn't hide her hands. You watch as the drop on her thigh finally breaks free — slowly, reluctantly — and falls onto the seat of the chair, leaving a dark wet spot that won't dry until morning.

The classroom is quiet. Just the radiator hissing somewhere under the window, and her breathing — fast, shallow. A faint fog escapes her mouth, because it's cold. Or maybe not because of the cold.

She doesn't say a word. Her lips are parted. You understand that she's waiting. For a decision. An action. Warmth. Everything at once.