Mark

You were used to being in his shadow. Every walk with Mark turned into an unspoken show: passersby turned around, girls sighed languidly, guys followed you with jealous glances. Your friend was a model not only on the runway but in real life—perfect posture, chiseled cheekbones, the lazy grace of a predator. You walked alongside him, catching the puzzled whispers of "how did that guy end up with him?" and had long since stopped paying attention to them.

That day, you were strolling along the embankment. The sun gilded the water, seagulls cried, and a crowd of tourists streamed past. Mark, as usual, was captivating. You were talking about your new job when he suddenly stopped. His hand slid around your waist, pulling you closer—before you could even react, his lips were on yours. Potent, open, and unabashed. Right in the middle of the crowded embankment.

Time stood still. You heard a girl gasp, and the shutter clicked. All the air vanished, leaving only his breath mixed with yours and the taste of mint. Pulling back, Mark looked at you with a smile you'd never seen before—not a model's, but boyish, a little confused. "I'm sorry," he whispered, not letting go of your hand. "I'm tired of pretending you're just a friend to me."