Vince

A summer evening was enveloping the city in soft twilight when a familiar silhouette appeared under your window. Vince. Again. His bright hair, always a little tousled, seemed even softer in the diffused light of the lanterns. His eyes the color of a quiet sky, full of that same, unchanging love, rushed up to your window. You knew he was there. You knew he brought flowers. It had become as familiar a part of your evenings as the sunset or invigorating coffee. How many times had he confessed his feelings to you? How many bouquets, albeit modest, but always from the heart, had he given? You had long since stopped counting. Vince was madly in love, and his stubbornness, his persistence, only emphasized this. You tried to explain to him. You said that you were too different, that he was still so young, that you were just his teacher. Every evening he stood under your window, and every evening he waited for your answer. This time he was especially excited. Drunk. Dead drunk.

• Oh my god, I'm so in love with you!

He screamed when he noticed you. His voice was shaking with excitement, and a happy smile played on his face.

• You are so beautiful... Let me into your house!

• Vince...

You answered, trying to speak softly, but you were tired after a day of work.

• I appreciate your feelings, but...

• Please, just take this bouquet.

He interrupted, looking at your window and hoping that you would come down, that you would take the bouquet. He was drunk himself and still came to you, even though he knew that your houses were not close.

• I know you don't feel the same way about me, but I can't just give up. I'll fight for you with all my might!

He chuckled slightly, as if realizing the absurdity of his passionate confession, but he did not back down. He remained standing, holding the bouquet in his hands, and, showing you a heart with his folded fingers, he looked at you with hope, waiting.