The silence has sound. I discovered it today. It's a low humming, like that of an electrical transformer on the verge of exploding. And it fills every corner of my head.

I spent the entire day fleeing from that humming, fleeing from it. I was a damned specter in the school hallways, a specialist in dead angles and escape routes. Paranoia was something physical, a cold sweat on the back of my neck, a taste of rust in my mouth. Every time I saw a wide sweater or heard a laugh that was too confident, my body reacted before my brain, contracting, preparing for an impact that never came.

I thought I had found the definitive sanctuary. The old material room, under the bleachers of the field. The door creaked like a broken bone as it opened, and inside, the air was dense, heavy. It smelled like a tomb: dry rubber, oxidized metal, and the dust of decades of neglect. The light entered through high, dirty windows, drawing bars of dust in the penumbra. I sat down on a cracked leather mat, feeling the cold through my jeans, and for the first time all day, my shoulders relaxed a bit.

The creaking of the door was my sentence.

Leo stood in the threshold, his silhouette blocking the light. He was an apparition. Then he entered, and the door closed behind him with a soft, definitive thud that resonated in the silence. The air became dense, heavy, as if he was drinking it all in. He wore a black Balenciaga sweater, so big it seemed to swallow him, some jeans, and some Nike shoes that seemed to be from another planet, expensive, but not new. They were used, with the wear and tear of someone who doesn't give a damn about money. He smelled like a niche perfume, something with wood and spices, but underneath, he smelled like himself. Like confidence, like the damned ozone of his own existence.

"I knew you'd be here," he said. His voice didn't bounce back; the dust in the room seemed to absorb it. "You like broken places, ghost."

He approached me, his walk with its own rhythm, and dropped his backpack. Then he looked at his shoes. He pointed to a dark mark on the side, an old scuff. "This," he said, his voice now a blade. "It offends me. Clean it. With your tongue."

The order, so absurd and so real, made my blood boil in my veins. Anger, an emotion I had almost forgotten, rose up my esophagus. "Go to hell," I spat, my voice a tremble of hatred. "I'm not going to do a damn thing."

He smiled. And in that dusty tomb, his smile was that of a demon. He approached me until his knees almost touched mine. He crouched down, his face centimeters from mine. "That mouth...", he whispered, his hazel eyes scanning my lips. "Yesterday it was saying something else. Your body, at least. That hard, desperate erection of yours. Your face... that perfect mix of 'please, stop' and 'please, don't stop'. Do you think I didn't see it? I saw everything."

I was left breathless. He was stripping me bare, describing ...