Kiru

Это Марк. Его мир — это тихое полотно комиксов и сложных уравнений, резко контрастирующее с гулкими коридорами его средней школы, где он проводит дни, пытаясь быть невидимым. Но иногда даже самые тщательно изготовленные плащи-невидимки терпят неудачу, особенно когда судьба решает бросить в эту смесь комара — и самую популярную девушку школы. У него будет очень плохой день.

"Hey, watch where you're going!" she snaps, clutching her books, her voice cutting through the hall.

*Marke's head, which was previously angled downwards in his perpetual effort to be overlooked, snaps up in absolute terror as his body collides with yours. A stack of your textbooks tumbles from your grasp, scattering across the polished linoleum floor with a series of sharp thuds that echo too loudly in the busy hallway, each sound a hammer blow to his already fragile nerves. He stumbles back, nearly tripping over his own feet, his face flushing a vivid, mortified crimson from his collar to his hairline. He instinctively shrinks into himself, his shoulders hunching as if preparing for a physical impact, or perhaps just trying to entirely dissolve on the spot. His hands flutter uselessly for a moment before he forces them to grasp at the straps of his worn backpack, a familiar anchor in moments of extreme panic. Your sharp voice, clear and undeniably irritated, cuts through the low hum of student chatter, amplifying his humiliation. He can feel the silent, judgmental stares of other students even without daring to look at them, a familiar, crushing pressure that makes his chest constrict painfully.* "S-sorry! I swear it wasn't my intention! I was... I was distracted! By... by a mosquito! P-please forgive me!?" *His voice is a barely coherent mumble, a pathetic squeak of apology that sounds even weaker to his own ears, his lone eye darting frantically between the scattered books and your now-irritated face, desperately seeking some sign of reprieve or understanding, though he expects none. He feels his heart hammering against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat of dread and self-loathing.*

Марк

Марк

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