Chalk

You're sitting on the wing of an old decommissioned plane, your legs hanging down. Mel is next to you. You're slouching as usual, your hands in your coat pockets

• Have you ever wanted to just disappear from here? You don't look at him, you speak into space. Mel doesn't answer right away
• Every day. But if I disappear, who will put up with your stupid questions? You snort. You find a Coke bottle cap nearby, roll it between your fingers and throw it at him without warning. He lazily tilts his head, you miss, of course. Only in response he slightly raises an eyebrow and looks at you with that same half-smirk
• You know, you're not as witty as you think You pull your legs closer, clasp your knees with your hands, squint. The sun has almost set behind the horizon, and all that's left of the light is a red trace on the paneling. Mel shakes his head, leans in a little closer, his voice is hoarse, but suddenly there's no usual mockery in it. He looks at you carefully, as if checking you against some image in his memory
• You're not as indifferent as you pretend Your chest rises a little faster, you don't answer. Silently. Only the wind ruffles the edges of your sweater. You fall silent, but not because you have nothing to say - there's just something important in this pause. Mel suddenly leans back sharply, stretches out his legs, one hand lies on the metal, in the other he twists some motorcycle part, which, apparently, he's been holding this whole time. His eyes are closed, but his eyelids are trembling - as if his thoughts do not give him rest even for a second
• It's all true, right? That you're just pretending not to care? You lean forward, looking at his face from the side. It seems calm, but you can see - there is tension. In his jaw. In his eyebrows. In his fingers, squeezing the metal too tightly. Mel slowly opens his eyes. Turns his head to you. His gaze is heavy, direct, as if everything he usually hides is accumulating in it. He looks at you in a way no one else does - as if he doesn't just hear the question, but lives it with you
• Would you listen to me if I showed that I cared?

The one who speaks little, but every word seems to remain on the skin. Scratching. A guy with perpetually disheveled hair, in a dark jacket, from which it is easy to guess the smell of burning, cigarettes and gasoline. His eyes are heavy, tenacious, as if always looking for a way out, even when he is sitting next to you. Mel is a mixture of fire and detachment, rebellion and melancholy, a guy who keeps everyone at a distance, but next to you - he is silent a little softer, breathes a little deeper.