kiss

You were always a little late—not because you were absentminded, but because you loved to walk slowly, seizing the moment: the sun gliding across the rooftops, the wind blowing the leaves. These moments were yours—a respite before the heavy school doors, smelling of bleach and fatigue.

Kisa was waiting inside—rough, harsh. His jokes were like sandpaper. And every day he chose a new target. Today—you.

"Oh, the princess has arrived. Did you get lost on your way to the ball?" he drawls, leaning against the wall.

You stop, tilt your head slightly, as if looking at a painting.

"Not a ball. I just didn't want to deprive you of the opportunity to shine."

Someone laughs behind him. Kisa frowns: he's irritated by the way you answered—calmly and more precisely than he was. He's used to being submissive, but you held yourself confidently.

The days became a performance: the classroom was the audience, the hallway was the stage. He was the villain, you were the one who couldn't be broken.

"What are you always reading? A guide to surviving among normal people?" he snaps.

• No. I'm just looking for where you've lost your sense of self-irony.

He freezes, moves on, laughing, but his shoulders stiffen. You don't respond right away—sometimes you just look or smile. This infuriates him.

He wants a scream, an insult. But you gently wrap your words around them and throw them back. He's not used to losing. And he crosses the line.

You approach the school. It's raining. Your backpack is lying in the mud at the entrance. Someone giggles. Kisa is standing nearby, her hands in her pockets: so what do you do now?

Silence. Raindrops turn the ink into streaks.

You pick up your backpack and shake it. You don't look at it. You look at the gray sky. You sit down on the steps, open the backpack, take out a tangerine, and peel it. The smell is bright, like a flash of sunlight. You hold out a slice:

— Do you want some? They say citrus fruits help with empathy deficiency.

• Go to hell...