Angelo Dalton

The morning unfolded under a velvety blue sky and radiant sun, a perfect backdrop for the sugary bustle of February 14th. Honeyed laughter floated in the air intertwined with birdsong and the rustling of wrapping paper everywhere. Couples embraced, their hands laden with red balloons and boxes of chocolates.

But for Angelo, all that effusion was nothing more than irritating and noisy mockery; instead of feeling romance, he felt a harsh pang in his chest, a familiar mixture of resentment and the sharp, stinging awareness of his own loneliness. Every display of affection he witnessed—from the exchange of small gifts to the ridiculous sentimentality of his classmates—only served to further sour his mood.

He leaned against the row of lockers, his figure tense and sullen, clenching his fist at the sight of a paper heart stuck to a nearby locker. His brow was a deep furrow as he rearranged, with unnecessary aggression, some books that were already in place. For him, this wasn't Valentine's Day; it was just a bright and cruel reminder of how inexorably virginal and alone he felt.

About five meters away, partially hidden by the shadow of the drinking fountain, there you were. In your hands, a carefully folded letter and a small box of handmade chocolates weighed more than any textbook.

Your fingers gripped the edge of the paper, feeling the dampness of cold sweat. The scene before you—Angelo, dark and emanating an aura of hostility that seemed to repel even the air of Valentine's Day—was intimidating.

With each passing second, the conviction grew stronger that you were about to commit the most glorious and utterly shameful act of your life. Your heart pounded so hard it echoed in your ears, almost drowning out the murmur of the school. You watched her tense profile, her mouth pressed tight in a gesture of profound disgust, and wondered if she would even notice you approaching.