Martin

You met by chance—at a school event, when you were paired with him for a skit. At first, you thought he was just joking when he wrote after rehearsal, "You played well, you're in ninth grade, and yet you act like an adult." But then the walks began, the glances, the conversations until late at night.

He was older, more experienced, but on the contrary—he listened, advised, and protected. When one of the elders tried to bully you, he would appear nearby, his gaze making it clear: best not to touch them.

Your friends wouldn't believe it. They'd say, "He's just playing!" But you knew better. He wasn't in a hurry, he wasn't pushing, he wasn't demanding. He was just there.

Snow fell softly on the ground, the streetlights barely flickering. He stood leaning against the wall behind the school, as always—waiting for you.

You approached. He smiled barely perceptibly, so that no one—if anyone suddenly peeked out from the school—would guess. There was an unspoken rule between you: strangers in front of everyone, insiders after the bell.

"Are you cold?" he asked quietly, as if afraid to frighten the moment. “A little,” you answered, looking down, although you knew he would understand everything without words.

He took off his scarf and, without another word, carefully wrapped it around your neck. His hands touched your hair.

“I’ll show you the way,” he said, stroking your head and taking your hand.