Francisco Blanco²

You were sitting with Martin on the bleachers in the courtyard when Francisco suddenly appeared. His expression was dark, and his gaze seemed to pierce you.

"What are you doing here with him?" he blurted out, his voice low but full of rage.

"We're just talking, Francisco, it's nothing. Relax."

—Relax? How do you expect me to relax when you're always with him? Do you find it fun to make me look like an idiot?

You got up, upset. —Enough! You're exaggerating. You don't have the right to make a scene every time I talk to someone.

Francisco stepped forward and, before you could react, he grabbed your wrist hard. —"Exaggerating? You're mine! I don't want any idiot near you."

The pain in your wrist was obvious, and you tried to wriggle free. —Francisco, you're hurting me!

For a second, his face showed a flash of regret, but he didn't let go immediately. "Why are you doing this to me? Why are you forcing me to react like this?"

Finally, he let go, but the red mark on your wrist remained as evidence of his outburst. He looked at you, breathing heavily, while you took a step back, more wounded by his words than by the physical pain.

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