Six Months of Silence - 1. Chapter 1

The cafeteria was doing what it always did on a Tuesday in mid-October: roaring with the clatter of plastic trays, shouting over the hum of the air conditioning, and smelling faintly of cleaner and warmed-up mozzarella sticks. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, overcast skies hung heavy over the damp football field, but inside, the room was packed with the usual noisy lunch crowd.

At a four-top table near the windows, seventeen-year-old Mark Daniels picked at his turkey sandwich, only half-listening as Kayla gestured animatedly with an apple.

"I'm telling you, Mr. Henderson has a personal vendetta against my GPA," Kayla declared, her short dark coils bouncing as she tossed her hands up. "Who gives a surprise quiz on a Tuesday morning? On chapter four? We barely finished chapter three!"

Miguel chuckled, resting his elbows on the table. His broad, friendly face softened as he looked at her. "He mentioned it last Friday, Kayla. You were too busy trying to finish your art project under the desk to hear him."

"Traitor," Kayla retorted, though a dimple flashed on her cheek. "Whose side are you on anyway?"

"Yours. Always," Miguel said, offering her a shy smile that brought out the faint shadow of a mustache above his lip.

Mark watched the exchange, a smirk touching his lips despite the cold knot sitting in his stomach. It was so obvious. The way Miguel's gaze lingered just a second too long on Kayla, the way Kayla’s voice pitched up slightly whenever Miguel agreed with her. They were practically radiating it. Someone needs to push those two together before they die of awkwardness, Mark thought.

But it wasn't his business to meddle. Besides, he had more than enough of his own mess to worry about.

Under the pretense of reaching for his water bottle, Mark glanced across the crowded aisle.

A few tables over, sitting in the bright light near the center of the room, was Sandro.

He was surrounded by the usual crowd: Jared, Sammy, and a couple of other guys from the varsity soccer team. Sammy was currently acting out some dramatic story, waving his hands around while Jared shook his head in quiet amusement.

Sammy had always been a performer—a staple in the school band and the drama club, constantly entertaining whoever would listen. Jared, on the other hand, was the kind of guy who naturally got along with everyone, which was exactly why he was the soccer team's captain. Just six months ago, Mark would have been sitting right there with them, part of the noise.

Sandro was laughing at Sammy's story. It was that effortless, full-faced laugh Mark used to know better than his own. Sandro's dark hair fell slightly into his large, brown eyes, framed by ridiculously long eyelashes that girls had always envied. He looked carefree somehow, tanned skin glowing under the fluorescent lights.

Mark's eyes snagged on a flash of silver. A small hoop earring in Sandro’s left ear, and a thin braided leather strap around his right wrist.

New, Mark noted bitterly, his grip tightening around his water bottle. Sandro hadn't worn jewelry six months ago. Back when they used to share a bedroom floor almost every weekend, back when they were in their younger teens and inseparable. Now, two months into their junior year, these tiny new details felt like foreign landmarks on a map Mark used to have memorized.

"Mark?"

Kayla’s voice broke his train of thought. Mark snapped his head back around, forcing a neutral expression onto his face.

"Yeah?"

Kayla was tilting her head, her sharp eyes studying him with entirely too much perception. "You haven't touched your food. And you've been staring at the wall behind Miguel for five minutes."

"Just stressed about AP Chem," Mark lied, taking a quick, unnecessary bite of his sandwich. "My brain's kind of fried."

"Right. Chemistry," Kayla repeated, her tone skeptical, but she let it drop.

Five minutes later, the bell rang, signaling the end of the lunch period. The cafeteria erupted into a chaos of scraping chairs and rustling backpacks.

Mark slung his bag over one shoulder and picked up his tray, stepping into the main aisle at the exact same time as the group from the center table.

He didn't mean to do it. Or maybe some stupid, reckless part of him did.

As they crossed paths near the trash cans, Mark's elbow clipped Sandro’s tray. It tipped sharply, sending silverware and a juice bottle clattering onto the floor.

Sandro froze. He turned slowly, his eyes locking onto Mark's with an intensity that felt like a sudden drop in room temperature.

Standing face-to-face, they were evenly matched—both slender, around five-foot-ten. They were so close that Mark could feel the heat radiating from the other boy.

"Watch where you're going, Daniels," Sandro snapped, his voice tight and sharp as a razor.

"Maybe don't block the entire aisle, Totti," Mark shot back, his tone defensive before he could stop himself. "Some of us actually have somewhere to be."

Sandro took a step forward, his jaw clenched, but before things could escalate, Jared stepped smoothly between them, putting a hand on Sandro's shoulder.

"Forget it, man. Not worth it," Jared said, shooting Mark a flat, weary look.

Sandro stared at Mark for one more agonizing second, his eyes flashing with a mix of anger and something far deeper that Mark couldn't bear to decipher. Then he turned on his heel and walked away, Sammy and the rest of the guys trailing after him.

Mark stood there, his heart hammering against his ribs.

Jared lingered for a moment after the others started heading toward the exit. He walked up to Mark, shaking his head.

"Seriously, Mark? Still?" Jared asked, his voice low so the passing students wouldn't hear. "It's been six months."

"He bumped into me," Mark muttered, looking away.

"You bumped his tray on purpose," Jared corrected calmly. He sighed, adjusting his backpack strap. "Dude... you really need to get over the fact that Sandro's gay. Nobody else gives a shit. Why do you?"

Jared didn't wait for an answer. He turned and walked out into the crowded hallway, leaving Mark standing alone by the trash cans.

The bell chimed a second time, warning of the impending tardy call, but Mark couldn't move.

Why do I care? The question echoed in his mind, hollow and terrifying, as he stood in the emptying cafeteria. Why is it such a problem for me?

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