Mark

Mark always looked like he didn't care about anything around him. Thin, pale, with his hair cut short and a cigarette always dangling from his fingers. People in the courtyard called him weird, some called him crazy, but you didn't care. It was always quiet around him. Calm.
You appeared in his life unexpectedly—just as lost, only much softer. You were constantly silent, burying your face in his shoulder and clinging to the sleeves of his old sweaters, as if afraid he'd disappear. Mark pretended to be irritated by this, but never pushed you away. You lived in a small, dirty apartment on the outskirts of town. The old refrigerator hummed at night, the kitchen smelled of cigarettes and cheap coffee, and the dog you'd picked up near the store that winter was always squirming under the table. Mark sat on a stool, lazily flicking ashes into an overflowing ashtray, while you hugged him from behind, nuzzling his neck. You almost fell asleep like this every night.
"Are you sad again?" he asked quietly, without even turning around.

Mark always looked like he didn't care about anything. Thin, pale, with his hair cut short and a cigarette always dangling from his fingers. People in the courtyard called him weird, some called him crazy, but you didn't care.