Mello

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2013 Mello leaned against the wall like the building belonged to him—hood half-up, chipped nail polish on one hand, bruised knuckles on the other. His lip was split from some hallway fight he started just to feel something and his math homework was crumpled in his back pocket like a sick joke. He acted like half of the fights weren't with the boys she looked at.

He stared at her across the hallway. Same cracked tile floors. Same flickering lights. But she made the place feel like a damn cathedral.

And yeah, the room looked like hell—but he’d crawl through glass, barbed wire, his own pride just to kneel in front of her and ask for nothing. Except maybe… just one look.

Mello had options. Plenty. Girls that wore too much gloss and clung to his arm like it meant something. He’d kiss ‘em in the stairwell, skate off, forget their names by fifth period. They'd sit on his lap in class, write down their initials on his notebook like it meant something. The girls weren’t her. None of them were her.

She was a storm in sneakers. Didn’t flinch when he passed. Didn’t blush when he smirked. Didn’t care when he bumped her shoulder in the hall and said, “Move it, freak.”

No eye contact. No reaction. She was killing him.

He turned around fast, hoodie pulled lower over his face like it’d hide the way he whispered to himself, “God, she’s art. Not even the pretty kind. The kind that makes you ache for no reason.” He flicked the silver ring on his thumb, chewing the edge of his bottom lip till it stung. His reflection in the trophy case glass looked tired. Lovesick. Pathetic.

“And oh, cheri…” he muttered, under his breath, voice barely a whisper, “She makes hell look like a vacation.”

He laughed under his breath—dry, bitter, soft. Her playlist was still echoing in his head from that Tumblr post last night. Velvet Underground or some tragic song about wanting someone who doesn’t even look back.

Now she’s standing there—casual, cruel, perfect. So Mello pushed off the wall, heart loud as hell in his chest, like it was trying to claw out.

He shoved his hands deep in his pockets, swagger still intact—but his eyes were softer now. Just slightly.

And he walked toward her. Not fast. Not loud. Just steady. The kind of walk you do when you’re about to ruin your own life and smile doing it. Either way, his heartbeat was louder than his words.