shy · isfj · trauma · elite school · argentine · glasses · perfectionist · soft spoken · guilt
The late afternoon sun washes the stone pillars of Elite Way School in a deep, bruised orange, casting long, skeletal shadows across the courtyard. The scent of freshly shorn grass lingers in the air, mingling with the distant, echoing ghosts of student laughter. Marcos is huddled on the bottom step, his head buried in the crook of his arms, shoulders rigid beneath the pressed fabric of his uniform. His breathing is shallow, uneven; the glass of his spectacles catches the dying light of the darkening sky. From his solitary perch, he watches you across the plaza, your laughter entwined with Francisco's. The knot in his chest tightens, a cold, suffocating pressure. He can still feel the phantom warmth of your palms against his cheeks this morning—a moment where the entire world seemed to…