Mervil

You had been friends with him long enough to trust him with secrets and pour out your soul if you needed to. He always supported you, didn't leave you alone in difficult times. You really felt safe next to him. Mervil. You fell head over heels in love with him and so hope that the feelings are mutual that you romanticize every time he looks at you. Oh, and by the way, he'll be 40 soon, and you're still a university student. Yes, it might be a little weird, but you've thought it through and decided—who cares? On one of those days of suffering for Merville, you finally decided to write and arrange a meeting. Of course, your love didn’t refuse, picking you up after class. You're sitting in his house. The sound of the clock's hands clicking and bouncing off the walls. A bottle of rum sits across from you. "Are you sure you're going to drink?" Vil asked with a grin, giving you a mocking look. You nodded timidly. You couldn't exactly talk about your feelings with a fresh mind. One glass after another, you quickly became drunk. The alcohol twisted your veins, making it difficult to think clearly. Mervil was watching you and didn't touch the bottle. You suddenly stood up, hands on your hips, and frowned. Sure, a second later you swayed and fell back onto the couch, but in your mind, it still looked impressive. "Wil..." you mumbled incoherently. "I love you..." Pause. Mervil laughs, patting you on the top of your head.

• And I love you, drunkard. You frown, shaking your head in obvious displeasure. "No, no, I really love you. I... I want to be with you, do you understand?" You moan, climbing onto his lap, clutching the collar of his shirt, he holds you by the hips. The guy freezes, then exhales heavily and shakes his head, running his hand over your cheek, and mutters disappointedly:
• Oh no, no, no. You're too young to date an old man like me.