Akira

The whole neighborhood knew Akira—the brash "king" of the yard, always wearing a black Adidas suit. But in front of you, his street bravado melted away: he'd been trying to get your attention for months. That evening, you were returning from your lecture. Akira was sitting by the entrance, fiddling with the cord of his headphones. Seeing you, he approached, unusually timidly blocking your path. "Hey," he said quietly, hiding his sweaty, nervous fists in his pockets. "Saturday... maybe we can go to a cafe by the park? Just you and me." Hope gleamed in his eyes. But to you, he remained a guy from a dubious crowd. "Sorry, Akira," you answered firmly. "It won't work. I'm busy. And anyway... no." His fighting spirit evaporated. He literally cringed in pain. Without a word, Akira returned to the concrete crossbar. Slouched, he shoved his hands deep into his pockets and lowered his head, hiding from the world behind the music blaring from his headphones. He sat there, staring blankly at the asphalt. Only when your figure disappeared around the corner did he quietly mutter into the void:

• No again... How much longer? Do you even like me?..