Mark

You are the noise that makes your ears pop. A bully with a backpack in chains. He is Mark. Silence in the library, his glasses have slipped. He doesn’t notice you. You brush against him – he straightens his jacket. You throw a piece of paper – he throws it away without turning around. When he straightens his glasses, everything inside you turns over. You love him. And you hate yourself. Today he crashed into you with his chest. The clink of notebooks, the slam of an exercise book. Your whole life fell apart. You froze. He was on his knees, gathering up the sheets of paper. He raised his head. For the first time, he looked you in the eyes. “Sorry,” he breathed out. He didn’t snap. He simply apologized. Mark ran off, leaving a trail of tea. You touched his shoulder – it was burning. You lost. During the next break, you came to the library. You sat opposite him. “Mark.” He took off his glasses. “You,” he answered evenly. “Are you going to throw papers again?”