Six Months of Silence - 4. Chapter 4

Thursday brought the kind of heavy, damp chill that made the high school hallways smell like wet raincoats and cheap body spray.

Mark was leaning against his locker, shoving a folder into his backpack, when Sammy bounced over. Sammy possessed a permanent, restless energy that made him almost impossible to ignore.

"Marky-Mark!" Sammy grinned, pulling Mark into a playful headlock. "Listen up. Saturday night. The annual Miller twins' extravaganza at my place. Sienna's promised to supply ‘high‑quality' punch — my sister's idea of quality being cheap rum and whatever lemon‑lime soda was on sale. I can't deal with Sienna and her nerdy friends by myself."

Across the hallway, Mark caught a sudden flash of dark hair. Sandro was standing by the water fountain, his back half-turned, but he was listening. Mark's eyes locked onto Sandro for a fraction of a second before he snapped his gaze away, his stomach doing a sharp, uncomfortable flip.

"I'll think about it, Sammy," Mark muttered, pulling his backpack over one shoulder.

"No thinking allowed! You're coming," Sammy insisted, slapping Mark's arm before darting off toward the cafeteria.

At lunch, Mark slid onto the bench across from Miguel and Kayla. He pushed his salad around with a fork, the nervous knot in his chest refusing to loosen.

"Are you guys going to Sammy's party on Saturday?" Mark asked, looking at them hopefully.

Miguel blinked, a french fry halfway to his mouth. Kayla offered a soft, almost sheepish smile and gently nudged Miguel's elbow.

"We actually can't," Kayla said softly. "Miguel asked me out to the movies on Saturday."

Mark looked at Miguel, whose face was rapidly turning the color of a ripe tomato. The sheer awkwardness on Miguel's face was so genuine that Mark felt a sudden wave of warmth wash over him.

"Movies, huh?" Mark teased, a real smile finally breaking through his tense expression. "Look at you, Miguel. Yeah, of course. I'm happy for you guys. Seriously."

"Thanks, man," Miguel mumbled, ducking his head, though he couldn't hide his proud grin.

* * *

After the last bell, the humid afternoon air hit Mark as he walked out to the soccer field. Coach Jenkins was already standing by the center circle, blowing his whistle with deafening force.

"Listen up! Warm-ups first, then we're doing passing drills!" Jenkins shouted, clapping his hands. "Let's move! State finals aren't going to win themselves!"

The team scattered, going through their usual routine of laps and dynamic stretches. Mark tried to focus on the burn in his legs, trying to flush away the tension of the day. But every time he moved, he was acutely aware of Sandro's presence on the field—fast, fluid, and completely ignoring him.

"Alright, pairs!" Jenkins called out after twenty minutes. "One-on-one passing. Keep it crisp! Work on your touch!"

Players quickly paired up. Mark turned to look for Jared, but Jared was already tossing a ball to Melvin. Before he could find anyone else, the remaining players shifted, and Mark found himself standing directly across from Sandro.

Neither of them spoke. Sandro's expression was an unreadable, icy mask.

They started passing, the ball zipping back and forth between them. It was tense, precise, and completely silent. Until Sandro took a pass, stepped back, and instead of a smooth return, drove his laces straight into the ball with full power.

BANG.

The ball struck Mark squarely in the chest before he even had time to raise his hands.

The impact knocked the breath right out of his lungs. Mark stumbled backward, gasping for air, his ribs aching from the shock. He looked up, coughing, and caught Sandro's face.

Sandro wasn't looking sorry. He was smirking—a cold, cruel curve of his lips. It was an expression Mark had never seen on his face before. The Sandro he had grown up with was kind, quick to laugh, and never intentionally mean. This version of him felt like a stranger.

"Oops," Sandro said, his voice quiet enough that only Mark could hear. "Guess my foot slipped. Consider it interest on the cafeteria tray."

Months of padlocked frustration, bitterness, and heartbreak suddenly cracked wide open inside Mark's head.

"You asshole!" Mark roared.

He lunged forward, shoving Sandro hard in the chest. Sandro stumbled back, his smirk instantly turning into wild fury, and shoved Mark right back with twice the force.

"Don't fucking touch me!" Sandro yelled.

In a second, they collided. They crashed onto the damp turf, rolling over each other in a chaotic heap of limbs, sweat, and shouts. Mark grabbed Sandro's jersey, his fists clenched tight, every muscle screaming to hit something—to hurt Sandro the way Sandro's absence had been hurting him for six months.

Being this close to him again was dizzying. He could feel the heat radiating from Sandro's skin, could smell the painfully familiar scent of him—a mix of fresh sweat, deodorant, and just Sandro.

As he looked down at Sandro's glaring eyes, Mark froze. He couldn't do it. He couldn't bring his fist down. He couldn't hit Sandro.

Sandro used the pause to twist around, trying to pin Mark's arms, both of them breathing heavily, wrestling furiously in the dirt.

"Hey! Break it up! Break it up!" Coach Jenkins' thunderous voice boomed across the field.

Hands suddenly seized Mark under his shoulders. Jared and Melvin hauled Mark backward, dragging him off Sandro, while two other teammates grabbed Sandro's arms.

Coach Jenkins came marching over, his face red with rage, his whistle screeching.

"What the hell is wrong with you two?!" Jenkins shouted, pointing a furious finger toward the locker rooms. "Off my field! Both of you! Now!"

Sandro yanked himself free from the guys holding him, wiped a smudge of dirt off his cheek with the back of his hand, and stormed off toward the gym without a single backward glance.

Mark stood there, his chest heaving, his hands shaking as Melvin finally let go of him. He picked up his sports bag from the bench and began the walk home alone, his mouth tasting like dust and sweat.

He had a sinking feeling in his gut. This wasn't over. Not even close.

* * *

The house was completely silent when Mark pushed the front door open, the quiet pressing in on him immediately. His parents were still at work.

He kicked his shoes off at the entryway without bothering to line them up, dropped his sports bag in the corner, and dragged himself up the stairs to his bedroom. Every step felt impossibly heavy.

He didn't even turn on the light. He just collapsed onto his bed, pulling his knees up to his chest and curling into a tight ball. His throat ached as he swallowed down the tears he refused to let spill.

I ruined everything, he knew, staring blankly at the wall. I ruined everything.

Why did he always have to make things worse? Why couldn't he just have stayed calm on the field?

Instead of fixing things, he had pushed Sandro even further away—so far that Mark didn't know if he could ever reach him again. And all Mark had wanted for months was just to have Sandro close.

The realization settled over the dark room.

I love Sandro, Mark admitted to himself for the very first time, the truth stark and terrifying. I love him, and I'll never get to have him.

* * *