POV: Michou
I stared at Yvan, waiting for him to blink.
The silence stretched—heavy, almost tangible. Around us, the noise of the school seemed to fade into the background.
I had thrown my invitation like a challenge.
A charity gala. Designer dresses. Champagne glasses.
And most importantly… a room full of Parisian elites.
If his "uncle" really worked in luxury logistics, Yvan should feel at home there.
Or… he'd be terrified of being recognized.
Yvan didn't look away.
His dark eyes—usually warm when we were alone—had turned back into those unreadable black mirrors.
— A charity gala, he finally repeated, his voice calm, almost too calm. Saturday night?
— Yes. My aunt insists. She says it's important to start "networking" early. I figured it would be a nice change from your uncle's warehouses.
I saw it.
That tiny movement in his jaw.
Barely noticeable… but I knew him.
He wasn't hesitating.
He was calculating.
Weighing risks.
Why did going to a party with me require that much thought?
Any guy our age would've jumped at the chance to see me in an evening dress.
— I'd really like to, Michou, he said at last, smiling.
But it didn't reach his eyes.
— I just need to check with my uncle. We have a big shipment coming in this weekend.
— Again? Lynn blurted out behind me. Does your uncle work 24/7 or what?
Yvan glanced at her, then looked back at me.
He stepped closer.
Too close.
His hand rested on my shoulder.
Warm. Steady.
Protective.
For a second… I lost my composure.
— I'll do my best to make it, Michou, he said softly. I promise. I'll let you know tomorrow.
I nodded.
I couldn't say anything else.
He had won this round.
Again.
Leaving me with a vague promise…
and that same unbearable feeling—
that he was hiding the most important part of himself.
POV: Jecolia
While Michou and Yvan were playing their little game…
I had my own battle to fight.
Mélo was trying to slip away toward the car, muttering something about an urgent call.
I grabbed the sleeve of his hoodie.
— Mélo. Wait. We're not ending it like this.
He stopped.
His shoulders dropped slightly.
When he turned around, he had that same clown smile—the one he used in class when he messed up.
But his eyes…
His eyes were different.
Dark. Heavy. Haunted.
— What's wrong, Jeco? I'm kinda in a rush, my mom's waiting—
— Stop with your mom, Mélo. We both know that's a lie.
His smile faltered.
His arms fell to his sides.
— Wanna walk for a bit? I asked, pointing at the park across the street. Just us.
We moved away from the others.
The silence between us wasn't like Yvan and Michou's.
Theirs was electric.
Ours… was sad.
We sat on a low wall, far from prying eyes.
— Mélo… why do you have bruises on your knuckles? I asked suddenly, taking his hand.
He tried to pull away.
I held tighter.
The marks were fresh.
Raw.
Violent.
— I hit something while moving boxes, Jeco. You know I'm clumsy.
— You're lying. You lie all the time now. You flinch at every noise, you get coded messages, and you have money without working. What are you involved in? If it's drugs, just tell me. We'll figure it out. I'll help you…
Mélo let out a dry laugh.
Almost cruel.
He stood up and looked down at me.
I had never seen that expression before.
Not anger.
Not even at me.
It was something worse.
Contempt.
For my innocence.
— Help? he repeated quietly. How exactly are you going to help me, Jecolia? By holding my hand? This isn't a Disney movie. Some people are born to live in the light…
…and others…
have to do the dirty work so that light can keep shining.
— What are you even saying? You're my friend, Mélo! I don't care about "the light," I care about you!
He stepped closer.
Too close.
His face inches from mine.
I could smell his expensive cologne…
mixed with something colder.
Something metallic.
— If you really care about me, Jecolia… stop asking questions. Just laugh at my jokes and enjoy the sushi. That's all I can give you.
He paused.
His voice dropped.
— The rest… would destroy you.
He turned away and walked back toward the RS6.
Without looking back.
I stayed there, sitting on the wall.
Tears in my eyes.
He didn't push me away.
He isolated me.
Like I was something he couldn't afford to catch.
Or worse…
Like he was the disease.