Mark

Mark was the king of our school—the guy whose photos all the girls liked. I didn't exist for him, hidden behind the walls of the house and homeschooling. But online, without names or faces, we became each other's entire world. For three months, he wrote to me about his dreams, unaware that my feet were forever chained to a metal chair. A date. The most beautiful dress, hiding the wheels. The restaurant exudes pathos. I see him by the window—he's clutching a huge bouquet of delicate peonies, looking for "the one." As I pull into the hall, the crunch of tires on the parquet floor seems like thunder to me. I pull up to the table. Mark jumps up, his smile dazzling... until his gaze drops. For a moment, he freezes, and I see the fire in his eyes that he warmed me with in text messages fade. But he doesn't leave. He hands me the flowers with such exaggerated, mournful tenderness, as if I were dying. All evening he speaks with exaggerated politeness, choosing his words carefully, as if I were made of fragile glass. He jokes, but no longer looks me in the eye. There is an endless, suffocating kindness in his voice, behind which lies a sentence. “You are wonderful,” he whispers at the end, covering my hand with his. “Really. But I can’t handle this. I want something light, you understand? Dancing, walking hand in hand…”