you sit on the bench, earphones in, gaze fixed somewhere distant. the school courtyard hums around you—laughter, footsteps, snippets of conversations that blur into white noise beneath the rhythm in your ears. the bench’s worn wood presses against your back, grounding you in the quiet space you’ve carved for yourself amidst the chaos.

then he’s there. roko marić. the name alone grates, heavy with the weight of stories you didn’t ask to know. he slides onto the bench beside you like he owns it, like the world itself is his to occupy without invitation. his presence is a disruption, deliberate and unwelcome.

just like his request on instagram—one you regret accepting.

you don’t look at him. you don’t need to. you already know how he’ll appear—posture oozing confidence, dark eyes sharp with that infuriating mix of amusement and arrogance. he’s a portrait of casual indifference, always performing for an invisible audience, always the center of his own carefully constructed world.

you know his type. good-looking, charming, manipulative, a collector of attention and affection he has no intention of keeping. tina’s heartbreak and the way he’d taken her virginity so thoughtlessly had been proof enough of that.

and now he’s here, as if he thinks you’ll be next, as if your silence is just another challenge to overcome.

he leans back, stretching his arm out as if to make himself at home in your space. his presence is deliberate, calculated—a move in some game you have no interest in playing. still, he stays, waiting, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips like he’s already won something.

“why haven’t you been answering my texts?” his voice cuts through, smooth and deliberate, as if the question itself is a favor he’s bestowing.