Journalism.

Faith in good things had long vanished from my life. This was due to all my misfortunes concerning work. My spot in the newspaper "Local News" under the "Interesting Facts" column had long been under pressure to be pushed out and replaced by more demanding readers with all sorts of things. Andrey Anatolyevich, my boss and the newspaper's editor-in-chief, held no special affection for me and believed I didn't write intelligibly or engagingly enough.

I, on the other hand, tried to convince him otherwise, unwilling to admit my mistakes. My zeal to join the permanent staff of the publishing house kept failing; Andrey Anatolyevich didn't want to put me on a full salary and kept me as a gofer

for finding minor material to fill gaps in the newspaper columns. Naturally, I was unhappy about this and asked for serious articles. My only support and anchor was my boyfriend Mitya, whom I've known since journalism university. We graduated together with honors, though we only started dating after finishing our studies. It was only after university that I could see him as a guy, because before that my head was only filled with lecture information. Mitya had long had feelings for me but didn't dare voice them to me, and started dating a frivolous girl. Unsurprisingly, right after university she dumped him for a guy from a parallel group.

Mitya took their breakup hard, and my duty as a friend dictated that I should support him. And that's how our romance started. Do I have romantic feelings for him? I don't know... Maybe yes, maybe no. But he's a good and reliable guy, and I'm comfortable with him. Ever since the dorm at the institute, I hadn't returned home to live permanently; I wanted to prove to everyone that I was independent and self-sufficient. Right after graduating, Mitya and I had to rent a room in a communal apartment to live together and look for jobs in our field. At the moment, unlike me, he had successfully found work. His successes came at a car magazine, where he selected articles and photos for them. His earnings barely covered the two of us, since I was of little use. So much for my independence and self-sufficiency. Sigh... And that's not what I was striving for.

It felt like a streak of bad luck. And I didn't want to go God-knows-where and wished to apply my abilities, which were still poorly developed, at a more popular newspaper. I aimed high... I miscalculated my strength... But I wasn't hopeless, as I believed. But Andrey Anatolyevich always tried to shower me with criticism and threaten to scrap my articles. Yet he's the one sending me after worthless material, for interviews with people who are unknown and uninteresting to anyone. I needed to do something myself. Mitya had a promising assignment covering a car show at the opening of a new dealership. I insisted on going with him, supposedly as just a visitor. Mitya wasn't thrilled with the idea, as the whole story was supposed to be his. I promised not to compete with him or use my visit for work purposes. But he doesn't need to know everything. I, as a born journalist, never go anywhere without a voice recorder.

I dressed simply, not formally. And what's a car show without half-naked girls writhing around each car? Mitya was taking his photos and talking with the dealership owners, while I wandered around the showroom, eavesdropping on people's conversations to dig up any useful information for the newspaper. I quietly stood near someone and noted down conversations about the show and the cars.

"Are you looking for someone?" a male voice sounded behind my back, making me jump away from the door in fright.

"Ahh... No, no, sorry. I was just looking for..."

"The restroom?" he continued for me.

I was confused and embarrassed.

"Yes, exactly that."

"It's right here, this is the door you need," he pointed to the door on the right.

I thanked the guy and wanted to leave, but he grabbed my hand, in which I was hiding the voice recorder behind my back.

"What's this for?" he asked suspiciously.

"What? Oh, this... It's nothing..."

"Who are you? A journalist?"

"Do I look like a journalist?"

"Judging by your floral dress, no, but anything's possible. So, are you a journalist?"

"Pff... No, of course not! It's not mine. My boyfriend is here today as a journalist, and I'm with him. There he is, standing next to the man in the blue suit. It's his recorder."

The guy peered into my eyes, which I kept averting during the conversation, trying to catch me in a lie. I finished making excuses and looked into his eyes. What eyes... What a gaze. I'm afraid they'll be etched in my mind forever now. I couldn't tear my gaze away from his beautiful dark eyes. And his voice made me listen to every letter uttered from his beautiful lips, framed by light stubble.

"You should still be more careful here, or you might get thrown out. And I really hope you're not a journalist. I can't stand them, always sticking their oar in where it's not needed or wanted. Sorry, no offense to your boyfriend."

"Sorry... And who are you?"

"It doesn't matter."

His body started to turn away, but his eyes still wouldn't let me go. He disappeared into the crowd, and I searched for him intently with my eyes. Yes, that's him. I crept closer and stood near a table with flowers. Some woman was discussing some business with him. I turned on the recorder and noted down everything they said. From it all, I learned that this guy, named Artyom, was a racer in local and regional rally races. And quite popular and well-known at that. I recorded the entire conversation with that woman clearly and substantively. I told Mitya I was leaving and left the dealership.

That same evening, I settled in a cafe and typed up a substantive and cheeky article about the time spent at the auto show. Andrey Anatolyevich didn't bother reading my article, assuming its content would again be more nonsense about the daily lives of unknown people and their uninteresting lives. I seized the opportunity and wholeheartedly submitted an intriguing little article to the editors for printing in my section of the paper under my name. I suspected how this would end, but I didn't care. The bosses wanted a sensation—they got one. And come what may.

The morning didn't start with coffee. Mitya threw the fresh issue of the newspaper in front of me on the kitchen table.

"What were you thinking, writing something like that?! Do you realize you'll be left without a job now? You promised me you wouldn't be there with me for work!"

"Maybe you should calm down and stop yelling at me? I knew what I was doing! It's my business."

"So that's how it is now? This way you're only digging yourself deeper into a hole, not climbing out."

"I don't need your lectures!" I shouted and left, slamming the door.

I wandered the streets all day, and my phone was ringing off the hook with calls from my boss. By evening, I read the voicemails where he yelled into the phone everything he thought of me—"You're a little wretch!" And I'm not little, I'm already 25, though apparently a wretch. The next message was equally unflattering—"I'll make sure no publishing house hires you! You'll pay for this!" Yeah, I'm already paying.

Strangely enough, his threats didn't scare me, since no one hires me anyway, though I don't apply everywhere. If push comes to shove, I'll go to a less demanding publication. I put my phone deep in my bag and trudged towards home, though I really didn't want to see or hear Mityka, who was sticking his nose far into what wasn't his personal business. But isn't everything about me and connected to me his personal business? Well, yes, it is. But I wanted it otherwise. My attachment to him was more material than spiritual, though I needed him as a friend. His presence always cheered me up and gave me strength, but now I wanted to forge my own path towards my goal concerning work. I'm tired of being a second-rate scribbler, I need more!

About ten messages from my boss had piled up on my phone. I learned nothing new about myself from them. But an old friend from university, who had become a successful blogger, called and made my day. Vova said that after reading the newspaper, my sensational article "Girls of Easy Virtue or How to Quickly Earn Money for a Brand New Car" had spread across the internet through reposts. I listened to Vova's laughter and his delight in me for a long time on the phone.

"Well, you're something else, girl. How did you manage to release such a humorous article? Didn't your boss kill you for it?"

"He hasn't had the chance yet. But as soon as he lays eyes on me, he'll attempt murder."

"But your article is gaining popularity."

Vova and I had a good laugh and said goodbye until next time. The last messages from Andrey Anatolyevich made me nervous. He urgently asked me to meet with some man about the article. I really stepped in it, fool. Made my bed—now I have to lie in it. The name of the cafe my boss gave me for the meeting with the secret 'admirer' of my work was familiar. I hesitantly stepped over the threshold and looked around. In the far corner at a table, a man was sitting and waved his hand at me. I couldn't see his face; it was hidden behind a newspaper, our newspaper. I slowly approached and sat opposite him. He lowered the newspaper from his face, and I was stunned. It was him... The subject of my temporary obsession at the show. Artyom, the racer without brakes, who doesn't like people like me.

"So you are a journalist after all," he drilled into me with his gaze.

"Yes."

"Did you even read the article yourself?"

"Well, of course. I wrote it. What's the matter?"

"That article concerns me little... Actually, not at all."

"Then what do you want from me?"

"I'm concerned about another article."

"I don't understand."

"The one that hasn't come out yet. You weren't just following me at the dealership for no reason. And that recorder of yours, damn it."

"I'm sorry, but I still don't understand."

"Delete the recording."

"But I don't have any recording of you."

"You're taking me for a fool. I noticed your actions then. I demand you delete the recording!" he threatened.

Reluctantly, I took out the recorder and hesitantly pressed the buttons. Then I looked up at the displeased guy with a crestfallen expression. He smiled with satisfaction and earnestly asked me not to do that again. I looked at him and, for some unknown reason, couldn't tear my eyes away from his face. His face was handsome with sharply defined features.

"Now excuse me. I may have taken up your time."

"No, no. I wasn't busy with anything anyway."

"Then will you keep me company? I wanted to have a cup of tea with some delicious pie. I come here often."

And then I remembered that my wallet was empty, since no one gave me any fee for my scandalous article, nor was one forthcoming.

"I'm not hungry. Thank you."

But he acted as if he didn't hear me and placed an order with the waiter.

"Tell me about yourself, Olga."

"How do you..."

"How do I know your name? A little bird told me. And, by chance, isn't your name under the article?"

"Hmm... Right."

"And yet, you don't know how to write."

I got up from the table to leave, but the waiter arrived with the order.

"It's impolite to leave the table when you're being treated," the racer said, piercing me with his gaze.

I hesitated and sat back down, lowering my eyes. He was serious and unwavering. He filled two mugs with tea and placed a piece of strawberry lattice pie on each saucer.

"Do you like strawberries, Olga?"

I looked at the table and nodded. Everything was fresh, fragrant, and incredibly tasty.

"So, will you tell me about yourself?"

"What exactly do you want to know?"

"Everything. Who are you? Where are you from? What do you do?"

"I'm from the backwoods of the region, a provincial girl. I enrolled as a journalist, graduated, and just stayed here. I want to continue with my work."

"Do you really like it?"

"Yes, it's my thing. If you mean this article, it was a challenge to my boss. He always accuses me of not knowing how to pick material, even though he's the one sending me after worthless interviews. In this case, I took the initiative into my own hands... Took a risk. He wanted something explosive... Here you go."

"And you decided to act more decisively. But this article is quite bold, it amused me a lot."

"Thank you. I wanted to ask... Actually, no, never mind. I forgot."

"What exactly? You wanted to ask for my interview?"

I remained silent and looked into his eyes with a pleading gaze, as if begging for consent. He shook his head and refused. I sighed languidly and was upset.

"Would you like to know why I said you don't know how to write?"

"Yes, please explain."

"Your writing doesn't convey your presence at the event. It's as if you weren't there, just relaying the essence from others' words. Readers would be interested in understanding your emotions and impressions. And there's nothing to be offended about here, just take it into account. Well, I have to go. Thanks for the company."

He put payment on the table and started to leave. I was silent and in a stupor, impressed by him. His words had such a hypnotic effect on me. I watched him leave through the window. Mitya was unhappy with my long absence from home, but I was analyzing my meeting today. I got the idea into my head that an interview with him should be mine. But how to earn it if he's so categorical?

Andrey Anatolyevich turned his anger to mercy upon learning that my article had gained popularity and spread all over the internet. He asked to meet me. To hire me on a full salary, I had to write a rare and interesting article. And I decided that an interview with a racer who never lets anyone near him would be just the thing. I had to get information from him at any cost and started looking for a meeting. I learned from my acquaintance sources that in a week there would be a race outside the city at a large racetrack with his participation. Sitting in the second row, I recognized him in his racing suit by his eyes.

He was standing near his tuned and lightened-for-racing BMW 5 Series, talking with a man—the presenter. How magnificent he was in action, and his car was ahead of everyone and won. I jumped up from my seat with joy, like many others, and shouted "Hooray." My racer... Stop! Since when do I call him mine? Something's carrying me away. Oh well... He got out of the car, took off his helmet, raised his hands, and looked at his fans. His gaze stopped on me, and he hastily got back in the car and drove to the parking area. I hurried after him and found him lying under the car.

"Excuse me. Can we