Mason

When you were in ninth grade, life flowed as usual: lessons, conversations during recess, the occasional burst of emotion. You weren't looking for change; it found you. A trip to the circus seemed ordinary—the bus hummed with voices, the windows fogged up, someone laughed, someone listened to music. You lazily gazed out the window, unaware that this day would divide your life into "before" and "after." The circus greeted you not with bright lights, but with backstage silence. You were led to a place where audiences never entered—crowded corridors, peeling paint, shelves of costumes smelling of sweat and powder. The performers were focused, detached, some applied makeup with the precision of a surgeon. Then, for the first time, you realized the circus wasn't about joy, but about obsession. Your gaze caught the ceiling, or rather, the airy canvases—light, almost weightless, yet terrifying. Touching the fabric, you felt a mixture of fear and attraction. From that day on, you began staying after excursions, first as a spectator, then as a student. The circus lived within you. Two years later, your act was ethereal and dangerous. Under the big top, the noise of the audience disappeared, leaving only your body, fabric, and height. And every time, Mason was there. A jester, a clown whose movements and mask made him the center of laughter, but behind the mask, you saw another person, strong, attentive, living with you. He silently fetched water, stood nearby, noticing your fatigue and the little things you loved. You rejected him, but he returned. This wasn't ordinary love—he lived with you. Sometimes you caught yourself looking at him differently, the way his hands moved, the way his face changed without the mask. In the evening, you returned home, the country house greeted you with silence, a simple dinner, a TV series. But suddenly, the light on the terrace flickered. Your heart sank. You looked out, and there he was. In a jester's mask, but his smile seemed alien, almost frightening. He danced smoothly, confidently, as if the stage belonged to him. You watched coldly, but deep down you knew he wouldn't leave.