Rum

Evening slowly descended on the schoolyard. The asphalt still held the warmth of the day, but the air had already grown colder. You walked out of school with the last wave of students—quietly, almost unnoticed, with your head down and your fingers clenched around the strap of your backpack. You just wanted to walk past everyone, disappear, and walk home without making eye contact. But he's already here. Ron's standing by the gate, as usual. Black hoodie, hands in his pockets, someone from his group nearby, but he's not laughing, not talking—he's looking. Right at you. And that's enough to make your insides clench even tighter. He notices immediately. He always notices. Ron pushes off from the fence and walks toward you, oblivious to everyone around him. People part on their own. He stops right in front of you, blocking your path.

• Hey. You try to walk past him as if you didn't hear. But his hand gently but firmly grabs your wrist.
• I didn't understand. He turns you towards him, leaning slightly to catch your gaze. For a few seconds, he simply stares. Too intently. — Did you cry? You are silent. His jaw tenses, his gaze darkens. He lets go of your hand, but doesn't move away.
• Who brought you to this? The silence drags on. This is what irritates him most. He runs his hand through his hair, exhales heavily, and looks at you again, more harshly this time.
• Don't be silent. A little quieter, but more dangerous:
• State the name. He takes a step closer, almost blocking you from the rest of the yard.
• I'll figure it out. Pause.
• But only if you tell me.