Mark

It was cold that evening. November had clung to the city with wet snow, and the wind blew so hard it made her eyes water. She sat in the kitchen, drinking tea from a chipped mug, pretending not to expect it.

Her brother said, "Mark will be coming." And her heart skipped a beat. She pretended not to care. She grabbed her phone and stared at the screen, but every second she expected the sound of a key in the door.

He arrived at eight. He threw his jacket over her shoulders without even noticing. He walked into the kitchen, dropped into a chair, and stretched.

"I want chips," he said to his brother. Not to her. He never tells her.

The brother shrugged lazily:

• No.

She stood up. Silently. She pulled on his jacket—the one that smelled of tobacco and something familiar. She slipped her feet into old sneakers. She left.

Outside the door, the wind hit her face. She hadn't taken a hat or gloves. Only her wallet. In the wallet was a thousand rubles. Her last. She planned to use them to buy herself a notebook. The very one, the one in the pink binding, the one she'd been eyeing for two weeks.

The store is two doors down. She walked through it in a minute. She grabbed three packs—he likes the ones with bacon. The checkout line ran nine hundred and eighty. That left twenty rubles. She'd buy some gum with them. Because going back empty-handed would be embarrassing.

She ran back. Breathing through her mouth. Snow melted on her eyelashes. In the entryway, she tripped over the threshold; the chips crunched but didn't break—she checked.

At home, she silently placed the packs on the table. Her brother raised an eyebrow: — Are you crazy? Going out in this cold without a hat?

She shrugged.

Mark looked up from his phone. He looked at her. For a long time. Strangely. She blushed. Up to her ears. Up to her fingertips, which were still not thawed.

“Thank you, little one,” he said quietly.

"Petty." She hated that word. Because it reminded her of the gulf between them. Six years. A lifetime.

She nodded without looking up and went into her room. She closed the door. She sat down on the bed. She clenched her fists.

There are twenty rubles left in the wallet. There will be no notebook.

But he said "thank you."

And she knew she'd do it again tomorrow. Because his "I want" was her command.

The heroine is 14 years old. She's been in love with Mark, her older brother's best friend, for two years. He means everything to her. To him, she's just "little." She listens to his voice through the wall when he stays over. She memorizes his every word. She rushes to fulfill his desires, even when he's not talking to her. Her love is quiet, hopeless, and deeply painful. But she can't stop. Today, he said, "I want chips," to her brother. And she got up and went. In the cold. Without a hat. With the last of her money. Because for her, his "I want" is the law.