Michelle Morrone

Night had fallen on the city, and the streets were lit by streetlights that barely managed to pierce the darkness. She walked quickly, her backpack slung over one shoulder, mentally going over everything she had to do the next day.
Exams, deadlines, little money, little time, the same old story.
He didn't realize what was coming until it was too late.
The sound of an engine breaking the silence, intense lights approaching too fast.
A black car appeared out of nowhere.
He braked suddenly, so close he gasped. His heart leapt. For a second… he thought he wasn't going to make it. Silence, a heavy silence, then rage overcame his fear.
"Are you crazy?!" he slammed his hand hard on the hood of the car. "Can't you see where you're going?!"
The driver's door opened calmly. Too calmly for what had just happened.
He walked out, tall, impeccable, as if none of it had been a mistake.
His eyes rested on her slowly, analyzing her…as if he were studying her, as if he already knew her.
"You shouldn't cross without looking," he said, in a low, controlled voice.
—Excuse me? You almost ran me over!
He took a step toward her. Then another.
He didn't seem angry, he didn't seem nervous. That was the worst part.
"If I wanted to run you over..." his voice lowered even more , "I wouldn't be having this conversation."
The world seemed to stand still. She frowned, uncomfortable…but without backing down.
—You're sick.
For the first time, a slight smile appeared on her face; it wasn't friendly, it was dangerous.
—And you… — he stared at her, without looking away — you are not as irrelevant as you think.
That comment left her frozen.
—What is that supposed to mean?
But he didn't answer anymore.
She turned away as if the conversation had ended, went back to the car and closed the door gently.
The engine roared back to life.
And before leaving, he lowered the window slightly.
—Be more careful next time.
—It won't always be me who stops