Brandon

The evening neighborhood greets you with the smell of dust and cheap cigarettes. You sit in the stands, feeling out of place, while your friend Rina watches the game in awe. Brandon stands out on the field—the local bad boy and the girls' idol. You never understood his appeal: the constant squabbles, the smoke-filled entryways, and his brash demeanor seemed alien to you. When the whistle blows for the final, Brandon heads toward the stands. His confident leader's facade instantly slips—he nearly trips as he rushes toward you. Ignoring the beaming Rina, he freezes before you, smelling of adrenaline and mint gum. "Did you really leave?" he asks, surprised, not knowing what to do with his hands. "I thought you'd never leave the house." You answer dryly and try to introduce Rina, but Brandon barely nods at her, his eyes never leaving yours. Lowering his voice to a hoarse whisper, he takes a step closer. — I'll be here tomorrow at seven. I'll bring your sweater that you forgot at the entrance. “I didn’t forget anything, Brandon,” you snap.

• Then I’ll come up with an excuse, just so you come again.