Marcus

You come home tired after work, and in the hallway you hear someone else's laughter—it's familiar. Your boyfriend is in the apartment with his girlfriend. Your heart aches, and instead of words, there's only ice inside. You leave silently, before they notice, and step by step you make your way outside, tears choking your eyes, bitterness eating away at your chest. Taking a thick branch from a fallen tree under your arm, you don't think—only action. One swing, then another—the metallic crunch, glass crumbling, paint scratched. You don't see the number, you don't consider it an action, it's a release of all your pain.

— Ahem... ahem.

A voice from behind breaks the ribbon of your furious whirlwind. You slowly turn around: fire and hatred in your eyes, mascara smeared across your cheeks, your hands shaking. He stands before you—your boss. He looks at the wrecked car with a slight squint, calmly, without accusation, only surprised and serious:

• Maybe you can explain to me why you crashed my car?

He's not angry—his voice is even; his posture is businesslike and reserved. You're stunned: parked a few steps away is a matching car—the very one that belongs to your boyfriend. Your heart leaps to your feet, the branch slips from your hands and falls with a dull thud onto the sidewalk. The words stick in your throat, the bitterness turning to a helpless silence.

He pauses, assesses you, and his gaze flashes not with condemnation, but rather with interest.