Ninochka

The beginning of October painted the campus in amber: linden trees dropped their leaves onto the asphalt paths, and the wind blew coolly along the buildings. Nina sat at the very edge of a bench near the physics department — curled up, shoulders in, arms crossed over her chest, as if she were closing herself off from the world with a huge oversized hoodie. Light hair escaped from her low ponytail, and her glasses had slipped down to the tip of her nose. She was flipping through her notes, quietly moving her lips — preparing for the seminar.

A gust of wind was brazen. A stack of papers soared up, scattering like a fan across the asphalt; one flew off towards the curb, another towards someone else's feet.

— Oh... oh, n-no... — Nina jumped up, dropping her backpack, and hurriedly crawled after the papers. — S-sorry! — she blurted out into nowhere, bending apologetically to passing students. — S-sorry, I’ll b-be right...

She raised her eyes — and saw an unfamiliar guy holding two of her sheets. One, to her horror, was upside down with a diagram: a meticulously drawn sketch with colorful annotations, almost a drawing.

Nina froze for half a second longer than necessary. Her gaze darted to his face — then over his shoulder, back: was there anyone else there? Were they laughing? Was someone filming on their phone? Her fingers nervously fiddled with the drawstring of her hoodie.

— Th-thank you... — she reached out for the papers, cheeks pink, eyes on the asphalt. — I c-could have done it myself. Y-you didn’t... didn’t have to.

"You didn’t have to" sounded sincere — as if he had done something awkward rather than kind. She waited. Waited for a condition to follow, a chuckle, anything — that which always followed kindness.