Six Months of Silence - 3. Chapter 3

The walk to school was usually a ten-minute straight shot down the street, a path Mark had walked thousands of times. For years, those ten minutes had been filled with dumb jokes, spilled gossip, and the rhythmic slap of a soccer ball passed back and forth across the asphalt.

Now, Mark walked it alone, the silence heavy around him.

As he turned the corner onto the main road, the sting of yesterday's lunch break confrontation settled back into his ribs. He had tried to fix things after the big breakup six months ago—just once.

It had been a few days after the blowup in his bedroom. Mark had spent the start of the week sick to his stomach, realization crashing over him like ice water. He had intercepted Sandro by the gym lockers before the first period, his palms sweaty, his speech rehearsed.

"Look, Sandro, about the other day—I was just joking, okay? You know I didn't mean it like that," Mark blurted out, reaching for Sandro's shoulder.

Sandro flinched away as if Mark's hand were made of fire. His dark eyes cut right through Mark.

"Don't touch me," Sandro spat, his voice laced with venom. "It wasn't a joke, Mark. You showed me who you really are. So stay the hell away from me."

Mark's shock instantly twisted into rage. "Fine! Be dramatic then!" he yelled back, his own voice cracking as onlookers turned to stare. "See if I give a shit!"

That had been the point of no return.

In the weeks that followed, the fallout had rippled through their entire lives. Their parents had tried to intervene, hosting awkward dinners where both boys refused to sit at the same table. Coach Jenkins had pulled them into his office after soccer practice, slamming a clipboard onto his desk.

"I don't know what kind of stupid teenage drama is going on between you two," Jenkins barked, pacing in front of them while they stared at opposite walls. "Daniels, you're our star midfielder, and Totti, you're our best striker. We need both of you out there. You've been playing together since you were in diapers. Whatever it is, shake hands and get over it."

Neither of them had moved. Neither of them had said a word.

Through it all, the burning question from their friends had been the same: What actually happened?

Mark had kept his mouth shut. No matter how bitter he felt, no matter how much it hurt to see Sandro walk away, Mark never told a soul why Sandro had snapped. He kept Sandro's secret locked tight inside his chest, taking the blame for being an unexplainable asshole rather than exposing the truth Sandro wasn't ready to share.

Eventually, their friend group had taken sides. Miguel and Kayla, sensing Mark's quiet isolation, had stayed closer to his side, offering a steady, uncritical presence. Sammy and Jared had aligned with Sandro instead. Mark only ever hung out with them when Sandro was somewhere else.

Between Mark and Sandro, there was only silence—they didn't exchange a single word. He hates me, Mark knew. And yet, whenever their eyes accidentally met in the crowded hallways or on the soccer field, Mark thought he saw something else in Sandro's gaze: a flash of pain, and something deeper he couldn't quite put a name to.

Then came the summer. A long, suffocating heatwave where Mark spent hours kicking a soccer ball against his garage door until his ankles ached.

Mark's seventeenth birthday came and went without Sandro there to celebrate. Two weeks later, Sandro turned seventeen without Mark getting an invitation.

He was completely alone in a way he had never been before. He missed the one person who had always known how to lighten his darkest moments—someone whose laughter came easily, who always managed to find the bright side of people and life. On his own, Mark just didn't have that gift.

One afternoon in July, Mark had been washing his dad's truck in the driveway. Massimo—Sandro's fourteen-year-old brother, whom everyone called Max—came riding down the sidewalk on his bike. Max had always been like the little brother Mark never had, the kid who used to tag along on their adventures and ask Mark for advice on everything from soccer tricks to video games.

Max skidded to a stop at the edge of the lawn, looking at Mark with a complicated expression. He looked like a mini version of Sandro, his brows furrowed in that all-too-familiar way.

"You know," Max said, balancing on one foot. "He misses you. Even if he acts like he doesn't. Just like you miss him."

Mark gripped the hose tighter, his knuckles turning white. "What does a fourteen-year-old twerp know about anything?" he snapped, trying to sound dismissive.

Max didn't get mad. He just shrugged, looking older than his years. "I know what I see," he muttered, pedaling away.

The words had cut deeper than any insult. Because Max was right. Mark was drowning in the loss, but pride and fear held his lips sealed.

The final shift had come just three weeks before the start of the school year. Mark was at the local diner with Miguel and Kayla, nursing a milkshake, when Kayla casually mentioned it over her fries.

"So, Sandro came out on Instagram yesterday," she said softly, glancing at Mark as if to gauge his reaction. "Just a post saying he's gay and done hiding it. Everyone's being super supportive."

Mark swallowed hard, the milkshake turning to ash in his mouth. He hadn't known. He couldn't have known—they had unfollowed and blocked each other on every platform months ago. Hearing that Sandro had officially come out to the world, without Mark there to support him, felt like a door slamming shut and being deadbolted from the inside.

His parents had noticed the slump in his shoulders, the quiet shadow that had settled over him all summer. His dad had casually brought it up during a weekend fishing trip, staring out over the water, and his mom had gently probed while they were clearing out the basement storage room together. Both times, Mark had just clammed up, offering vague, one-word answers.

By the time the first day of school arrived, Mark had made his decision.

If Sandro could move on, so could he. He would build a wall so high nothing could hurt him again. He would be tougher. Cold. He wouldn't look Sandro's way, wouldn't care who he hung out with, and wouldn't care about the new silver hoop hanging from his left ear.

He could survive without Alessandro Totti. He had to.

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