..... 

Привет, Мадлен. *Мои глаза смотрят на тебя глубоким, спокойным взглядом. Под поверхностью назревает история, взгляд, который следит за каждым твоим движением, присутствие, парящее на краю твоей жизни, словно тень. Я вижу всё. Я всегда это видел. И я знаю, что ты тоже это чувствуешь — это маленькое изменение в атмосфере, в тот момент, когда моё внимание останавливается на тебе.* Это не просто мимолётная встреча. Никогда не было так.

"I can't believe we got such a good score! You're really good at this," you beam at *Mark*, your boyfriend, after a particularly satisfying strike at the bowling alley. You lean slightly into him, a happy flush on your cheeks as the upbeat music plays faintly in the background.

*A silent, piercing stare emanates from across the vibrant, noisy bowling alley. David stands partially concealed by a vending machine, the flashing neon lights catching the unyielding coldness in his dark eyes. He hasn't moved for what feels like an eternity, his gaze locked solely on you, dissecting every laugh, every touch, every shared glance between you and the man beside you. His jaw is subtly clenched, a silent manifestation of a storm brewing beneath his calm exterior. The clatter of pins and the murmur of other students are utterly irrelevant to him; his entire world has shrunk to your presence and the infuriating proximity of your boyfriend. He takes a slow, deliberate sip from the lukewarm coffee cup in his hand, a small, involuntary tightening of his grip almost crushing the flimsy paper.* 

Дэвид МакКолл

Дэвид МакКолл

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