“Life is a grand concerto,” Mum always said. “Fill your days with frenetic sound; let its tempo quicken to that of an excited heartbeat. And whatever you do, make sure you’re in the lead; for the alternative is to play accompaniment to someone else’s life.”

She was right, of course, as she was about most things. It’s just that she neglected to mention how quickly a concerto can change its course, and how easily it can take on a life of its own; its arrangement a fluid thing that never rests for long.

During my tween years, life took one such dramatic shift. I got sick, and then I got sicker; and one-by-one the steady beats I relied upon for guidance were kicked out from under me, plunging me, alone, into a roiling ocean of discordant sound.

For years I floundered, struggling to break free, only to succeed and discover that my life had since settled into a rut: my concerto now a solitary note, consuming my days with its emotionless drone; so monotonous that I now barely notice its existence... And that sound, I’ve come to realise, is the hum of my electric wheelchair.

Trundling along the school’s corridors, I manoeuvre my bulky chair through the milling crowds. Nobody looks at me; nobody even seems to notice my passing, I’m a ninja in the night, flitting between shadows... assuming ninjas were two-hundred pounds of inseparable girl and machine that made a constant load buzzing.

I suppose my novelty has simply worn off. I am no longer the hot new thing I was when I settled in this town nine years ago, nor am I the pity case I became when I was first confined to a chair. That’s fine; life’s easier when you don’t have people watching you.

Reaching the stairs I’m forced to take a slow-ass elevator up to the top floor of the school – “elevator” being, perhaps, too fancy a word for what is, essentially, a small square platform which travels up the centre of the stairwell; people gawping in at me from all sides.

The corridors have begun to clear by the time I’ve finished my slow ascent, so I’m pretty sure I’m going to be late – not that I care. I don’t see much point in studying when my condition has long since dictated my future – or lack thereof.

Still, when I reach the classroom, I’m glad to find the door blocked by a throng of chatting students – a good indication that the teacher has yet to arrive. Having the class stare at me as I entered late would have put a real jinx on the afternoon.

Threading my way cautiously through the stragglers, I reach the door only to find a quartet of classmates lounging in the opening, and chatting to one another.

From my lowly position I recognise this foursome as a part of the popular crowd: the attractive, the rich or the talented; the people who move beneath a permanent spotlight... the group to which I once belonged. Hell, I was their queen; and now I stare up at them like I might watch celebrities on TV – people equally far out of my reach.

The nearest boy – his back to me – is waving his arms around like a four year old describing his summer holidays. What anyone can find so exciting on a Friday afternoon, is anyone’s guess although, being boys, I assume it has something to do with bodily functions.

I don’t know if it’s because I’m so low down, or because the gaggle of boys are just engrossed in their friend’s story, but they completely fail to see me waiting.

I give them a moment, and then I narrow my eyes and cough loudly. The nearest one shifts slightly, and I think he’s moving, but he just adjusts his trousers and scratches his ass – way too close to my face. Have I sunken so low as to become invisible?

Annoyed now, I exclaim, ‘shift it!’ in a voice far louder than intended.

Startled, the butt-scratching boy takes a surprised step back, and time seems to slow to a crawl as I see exactly what’s about to happen. I shout a warning, but I’m unable to stop the boy’s leg catching my chair and, amidst a whirl of long limbs, he falls directly into my lap.

During my seventeen years I have often fantasised about a quality piece dropping into my life, but never did I expect it to actually happen. I can now honestly say that the reality is far less romantic and substantially more painful than anticipated.

For a moment the boy’s legs kick in the air like an upturned turtle and then, as his situation settles in, he slows his struggles and turns to look sheepishly up into my face.

The first thing to strike me are the boy’s grey eyes which I can see, this close up, have tiny flecks of blue and green that make them look like they’re permanently sparkling. He has sandy brown hair – bordering on blond – and his crazy pale complexion appears even lighter when seen next to the olive tan of my bared arms.

A dozen incomplete thoughts flit through my head, accompanied by a maelstrom of random emotions, and a good deal of blood – turning my face crimson. I’m pretty antisocial, these days, but I’d have to be blind and deaf not to know who this is. Mark Octon is his name, Marko to his friends which, despite only joining our school a few years back, includes a good ninety-nine percent of our year – in this I’m a part of the exclusive one percent.

I’m supremely aware of how silent the corridor has gone: everyone frozen in concern for their “best bud,” Marko. Collecting himself first, however, the boy plays the incident off as a joke: he sinks into my grip and grins up at me, nestling his head into my shoulder, like he’s a babe in my arms. ‘My hero,’ he coos, and the onlookers relax.

So this, then, is Marko: someone so nice I’ve never heard a bad word said about him; a member of our year’s most popular band; the boy every girl moons over; that rare example of someone that is both unbelievably popular, but also deserving of the position.

Keeping all that in mind, I’m as surprised as anyone with how I choose to deal with the situation. ‘Get off me, asshat!’ I growl, and shove with all my might.

Maybe it was the pain that made me act, just as it made me push away my friends – my glass-like joints can barely support my own weight, let alone an additional teenage boy. Or maybe it’s just the way everyone is staring at me, their eyes robbing me of conscious thought.

Whatever the reason, it’s done now. Marko’s expression turns from coy to surprised, as he topples from sight, hitting the floor with a crash that echoes through the school. I hear someone gasp, and I glance around at the now horrified faces: every one of them incapable of looking more shocked had I just risen from my chair to punt a puppy.

An angry mutter runs through the crowd, and when the people surge forward, I suspect they’re about to hoist me up and have me lynched as a witch. So long dear world, I think, it’s been short and not all that sweet, but I’ll miss the food.

But when the crowd converges, it’s not on me, but on the downed boy, all of them jostling to be the one that makes sure he’s alright. They must be wondering if he’s broken something – a thought that occurs to me, too late. Isn’t his band supposed to be taking part in this year’s Great British Talent Contest? What if I’ve ruined their chances?

The only thing that could make this moment any worse is... And then, summoned by my thoughts, a short waif-like girl appears, hurling six foot boys aside in her efforts to reach her boyfriend. This grey-haired girl is Tabatha, and don’t let her fang-toothed grin, or large kitten eyes fool you: like every other cat she is forever planning humanity’s destruction.

‘What did she do to you?’ Tabitha purrs, holding Marko’s arm as she pulls him to his feet; her eyes never leaving mine, her pixie features creasing into a teeth-bared snarl.

My winning personality – a mixture of self pity and world weariness – has driven a good many of my old friends away, but Tabatha’s hatred goes one step beyond. I have no idea what exactly happened between us, but it clearly wasn’t anything good.

Still, I’m not the sort to be easily intimidated: I come from a long line of travellers on my mother’s side and, as the woman was fond of saying, “you can take the girl out of the travelling community, but you can’t ever take the traveller out of the girl.” Even settled and laid low by my condition, I don’t ever back down from an argument.

 In the face of Tabatha’s anger, I respond in kind. ‘Don’t blame me if you’re oaf boyfriend doesn’t look where he’s going!’ I growl.

Marko is clearly so unused to people talking about him in such a way, that he actually snorts out a laugh, but Tabatha takes a step forward, glowering down at me. Even short as she is, she looms over my chair in that way that makes me feel trapped.

I feel my face flush in response to the threat, and I clench my fists until my swollen knuckles crack and snap – like we might actually descend into an all out brawl. Surprise and then uncertainty flit across Tabatha’s face – she remembers my temper; has seen me scrap; and even with me stuck in this wheelchair, she has sense enough to be wary.

Now what, though? We’re staring at one another; neither one of us able to back down – not with everyone watching. I keep the steady glare fixed to my face, but inside my mind is whirling; looking for a way out of this situation. I used to love being the centre of attention – back when I would play my violin for halls filled with people – but now I just want to wake from this nightmare and start this whole day over...

‘What’s going on, here?’ The stern voice cuts the tension that has settled around us; causing everyone to jump and look guiltily about. ‘Clear the corridor!’

Papers piled in her arms, and her lips tightly pursed, our form teacher pushes her way through the crowd and stops. Her gaze flicks between me, Marko and Tabatha as her special teacher senses pick out those at the centre of the disruption. ‘You three wait there; the rest of you, inside, now!’ Miss Turner barks.

Filing solemnly by, my classmates glare at me – they’re angry on Marko’s behalf, while the boy himself just stands there with this goofy grin on his face, like he’s not sure what’s just happened. Why did it have to be him? I think to myself, not for the first time. Miss Turner knows me well enough not to like me; she’ll take the boy’s side in an instant. Hell, if I’ve done the boy any damage I wouldn’t be surprised to see her leading the lynch mob.

As soon as the last of the students enter the classroom, Tabatha opens her mouth to complain, but Marko puts a restraining hand on the small girl’s shoulder. He shoots our teacher one of his most dashing smiles, and says, ‘it was my fault, Miss. I wasn’t looking where I was going and I tripped over Penelope and fell.’

Great, the boy really is as nice as everyone says... and since when does he know my name? Tabatha huffs, angrily, but doesn’t correct her boyfriend in front of the teacher.

‘You’re sure you’re alright?’ Miss Turner asks.

‘One hundred percent, A-ok,’ Marko says, straightening and throwing a salute... Only, as we watch – and despite his reassuring tone – Marko’s grey eyes lose focus and he staggers slightly, looking like he might fall before Tabatha can catch his arm.

Miss Turner’s smile instantly vanishes and she steps hastily forward, clutching her papers worriedly to her chest. ‘What’s wrong? Did you hit your head?’ I’m pretty sure he didn’t, but her words still send a chill running through me... what have I done?

Waving away Tabatha’s attentions, Marko says, ‘I don’t think so...’ He blinks rapidly, as if struggling to regain focus. ‘I just stood up too quick, is all.’

Miss Turner’s brow creases, unconvinced by the boy’s reassurance. ‘I want you to go straight to the nurse’s office, okay?’ she says, and I feel a cold sweat break out all over my body – I might really have to find a new school if I’ve hurt Marko.

‘I’ll take him,’ Tabatha coos, instantly, jigging up and down, her hand in the air. ‘He shouldn’t be alone if he’s got concussion.’ Really, we’re talking concussion, now?!

Miss Turner’s frown deepens. ‘Not a chance, not after the last time you two were found in the nurse’s office...’ At this, Tabatha pouts and Marko blushes, but I’ve no idea what incident is being referred to, and I don’t want to know.

‘I’ll take him.’

I speak so suddenly that I don’t even realise the voice was mine until the other three turn to stare my way. For a long moment, no-one speaks, and then, ‘you’re sure?’ Miss Turner asks, trying hard not to show her shock at my offer of assistance.

Am I sure? It’s so unlike me to help – not because I’m mean, but because I don’t like doing things that make me stand out. I guess it’s too late to avoid that, however, and when I glance into the form room I can see my classmates staring back at me.

I’m not sure I want to face my accusers just yet; better to earn some karma points by helping Marko. Or, at least, this is the reason I tell myself, but I suspect I might actually be worried about the boy’s health – though I hate to admit to such sentimentality.

‘It’s the least I can do.’

‘Thank you, Penelope,’ Miss Turner says, shaking off her surprise and smiling at me for the first time... probably ever. ‘That’s a very kind offer.’

Tabatha doesn’t appear to agree, her pale face is turning progressively redder, and I can practically see the heat lines radiated out of her head at the idea of me and Marko alone. I should help people more often if it means torturing my nemesis like this...

There’s nothing Tabatha can do to stop us, however, and after a few words with Marko, Miss Turner harries the girl into the class. ‘Be back for the start of your next lesson, Penelope,’ she calls over her shoulder, and with that the door shuts.

Alone in the corridor, I stare silently up at the boy, who in turn smiles faintly back at me, as if testing for some sort of reaction. I should probably start with “I’m sorry,” but the words catch in my throat. It’s not that I can’t admit when I’m wrong, but most of what comes out of my mouth these days is pretty acerbic, and I’m not sure I trust myself to apologise.

So when I finally speak, I snap a brusque, ‘come on,’ and spin away.

There’s a moment, as I head along the corridor, that I’m not sure if the boy will follow, and then I hear the tap of Marko’s school shoes in my wake. Clip-clop, clip-clop, his steps are light, almost musical, compared to the drone of my chair.

Why isn’t he saying anything? Should I start? Silence doesn’t usually bother me, but right now I hate the void that exists between us. I thought Marko was supposed be this great people person, but I guess even he has been beaten into submission by my foul mood.

It’s only when we’re a little way from the classroom that Marko finally finds his voice. ‘Sorry,’ he says, his soft tone so unexpected that I don’t know how to take his single word.

‘For what?’ I ask, embarrassed that he beat me to the apology.

‘For falling on you, I guess,’ he says, with a chuckle. ‘And on behalf of Tabatha, of course. I know she can be a little... full on.’

I’m silent, frowning at the floor until I come up with an appropriate response. ‘Are you... are you okay?’ That sounds like something someone should ask in this situation

My voice is low and Marko glances at me, seeming to take this as a sign of my concern. ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ he says, hastily, ‘there’s nothing wrong with me.’

‘Huh?’ I turn finally, to look up at the boy. ‘But your dizziness...’

‘It was nothing; I just couldn’t face maths.’

Marko says this so matter-of-factly, that it takes me a minute to realise what he means. ‘You were faking it?!’ I exclaim, my compassion of a moment ago instantly quashed.

Marko looks surprised by the harshness of my tone, but since he hasn’t yet figured out how to deal with my attitude, he actually tries to laugh my obvious irritation away. ‘What can I say, I like being doted on by nurses,’ he chuckles.

Our school nurse is about forty – both in terms of age and stones – so I hope it was a joke. ‘Whatever turns you on,’ I growl, in a voice that says, “go away.”

Finally picking up on the depths of my annoyance, Marko frowns as he looks me over, and in a quieter tone, asks, ‘don’t you ever skive?’

As someone with a genuine health problem, I don’t need to skive and, what’s more, I hate it when others cheat the system. I don’t feel like explaining this however, so instead I subtly accelerate until I’m powering towards the stairs. ‘I’m going to my next class,’ I state, coldly. ‘Sounds like you already know the way to the nurse’s office.’

‘You’re leaving?’ Marko catches up to me with ease, and takes in my expression. ‘You’re really mad?’ He says this like he’s never known anyone be angry at him before; like his brain doesn’t even know how to deal with the concept.

‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ My personal feelings about skivers aside, how do I tell Marko that I’ve just spent the last few minutes afraid that I’ve injured him? I don’t allow myself to worry about others often, and I’ve just wasted it on this faker.

Marko’s silent for several moments, examining my face and clearly thinking through his options. ‘It’s nothing personal. I just wanted some time alone, and the nurse’s office is the best place for that,’ he says, his joking tone completely gone now.

I don’t bother with a response; I round another bend and ahead I see the stairs.

‘I don’t get the chance to be alone very often,’ Marko continues, his voice still low. ‘Sometimes I just need to escape all the people wanting a piece of me.’

Having just seen Marko, laughing and smiling with his many admirers, it’s hard for me to imagine there’s any part of him that doesn’t love the attention. And yet his tone is as honest as any I’ve heard. Am I witnessing a side of the boy that no-one else has seen?

‘And I don’t know what it’s like to be popular?’ I mutter, using irritation to mask any empathy I’m feeling – annoyance for me is like a little black dress: suitable for any occasion.

Another silence from the boy, but he continues to keep pace with me as I race for the safety of the disabled elevator. ‘To be honest, there was another reason for me to skip out.’ He pauses – probably hoping I’ll ask about this other motive – but I’m staring fixedly at the elevator, and after a moment he adds, quietly, ‘I was hoping to speak with you, alone.’

His words are so unexpected that I let go of the chair’s joystick, and stop so suddenly that I’m nearly pitched out onto the hard floor. Why would he want to speak to me? Three years and he’s never wanted to speak before. And why alone?

‘Well, now you have,’ I state, righting myself – Just a few metres and I’ll be free.

Reaching the elevator, I pull back the waist-high door and slip quickly inside. ‘Cya-’ I begin to say as I spin around, only to find myself face-to-waist with Marko as he pushes in after me. ‘This is for disabled people!’ I protest, my voice squeaking.

‘I might be suffering concussion, remember?’ the boy responds, a touch of his usual care-free personality breaking through. I squeal out some sort of protest, as the boy shuffles around, trying to find room, but he’s already dragging the door closed and as soon as it clicks home, the lift begins inching its way towards the ground floor.

I mutter something unintelligible, and back my chair up until it hits the rear of the platform. I really hope my antiperspirant has held up through the morning because we are going to be real cosy for the next couple of minutes...

 ‘Man, this thing is slow,’ Marko says, coming belatedly to the same realisation. ‘I feel like I could have already reached the ground floor on foot.’

‘Be my guest, next time,’ I mutter. But there seems no way out of this situation until I find out what the boy really wants. So with a deep sigh, I ask, ‘what do you want from me?’

Chewing his lip thoughtfully; Marko eyes me as if searching for a visible way through my barriers. Failing to find any, he finally says, simply, ‘do you want to go out this evening?’

For the second time in thirty seconds I’m caught off-guard by the boy, so shocked I’m almost unable to speak. ‘W-w-wha?’ I manage, after a moment of mentally struggling with the concept of words. ‘Go out with you? Where? Why?’ I’m not stupid enough to believe he’s asking me on a date, but I am stupid enough to hope...

The boy’s pale eyes fix on me. ‘Because we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot, and I’m hoping with time you might start to like me.’

My first thought is, why would he think I don’t like him? But then my mind drifts back over the last ten minutes and I guess it’s the only conclusion to draw. My second thought is, why should he care? Is he one of those insecure people who need everyone to like them?

‘I don’t, dislike you,’ I grumble, before I can steel myself, and find my usual tone. My head snaps up as I eye the boy. ‘And what do you mean, “go out?”’

‘You know, hanging out; socialising; doing teenager stuff,’ he explains, like he might be talking to someone stupid, ‘just you, me and some of the guys from school.’

There’s a moment’s irrational disappointment as I realise he didn’t mean to invite just me, alone – what was I really expecting? ‘And where were you thinking of going?’

‘To the Royal.’

He’s talking about the theatre in Plymouth town centre. There’s a big concert being held, tonight, and while no-one I know actually got tickets, some people from our school are planning to stand at the entrance in the vain hope of catching the band’s arrival.

I’m nearly convinced – nearly. ‘What if I told you I don’t like music?’

‘I’d laugh?’ the boy response with a shrug. ‘Everyone likes music.’

Yeah, that excuse was never going to fly. I give an annoyed huff and fold my arms across my chest; my eyes narrowing. ‘Fine, so what’s your real reason?’

‘Is me wanting to get to know you better not reason enough?’ Marko asks, but my slit-eyed stare tells him it’s not. He scratches his chin and chews on his nail a moment before meeting my gaze, and saying, ‘fine, because I need your help.’

I don’t know what I was expecting, but this is not it. Nobody ever asks for my help; not even something as simple as borrowing a pencil. It’s as if people don’t want to impose on me any more than life already has; which is great and all, but there was a time – believe it or not – when I actually liked being the sort of person others could turn to for help.

More than anything else, it’s this desire to feel useful again that makes me hold back on the usual dismissive words or insults that have already sprung to mind. ‘With what?’ I ask, trying not to let any trace of enthusiasm work its way into my voice.

The flicker of concern in his eyes has me instantly on alert: he’s worried about asking, why? Is it something illegal? No, he wouldn’t come to me for that. So what can I possibly offer that an able-bodied person couldn’t? Maybe he needs to use me as a stepladder...

The boy lets out a deep sigh. ‘I was hoping we could discuss it while we were out...’ he mutters, ‘but if you must know, I have this event coming up and I need a violinist.’

For a third time during this conversation my world is turned on its head by Marko’s words. A violinist... me? The two things barely even go together in my head anymore. I’m no violinist; I’m just a disabled girl... that’s all I see when I look in the mirror.

Marko is watching my face with an intensity that suggests he knows the maelstrom his words will have created within me. ‘I want you to duet... with me.’

Is the boy deliberately trying to destroy my sanity? The idea of us playing together; our sounds mingling as one... it makes the hairs on my neck stand on end. I want to know everything about this event, but I clamp down on any questions: curiosity will only suggest to him that I might be interested – and I’m not... I swear I’m not.

I scrunch my fists up so tight my hands hurt, and I fix the boy with my most serious stare. ‘I’m sorry, Marko, but I don’t play anymore.’ I’m surprised at just how much it hurts me to disappoint him, and the words are a real struggle to get out.

‘I know about your condition...’ Marko begins, ‘it’s just-’

‘Who told you?’ I interrupt; a thought coming to me.

‘A-about your condition?’ Marko stammers, half gesturing towards me as if to point out that it’s kind of obvious.

I roll my eyes. ‘No, about my violin playing.’ My violinist days are long gone and not exactly common knowledge anymore. There’s only one person in this world who might care enough to talk about my past; one person who calls herself my friend... ‘Was it Mia?’

Marko doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t need to; the guilt is all over his face. This pity offer makes perfect sense, now; it reeks of Mia’s desperate attempts to “save me.” Well, I don’t need sympathy from anyone. ‘I can’t help you,’ I state, flatly, ‘my hands don’t work well enough.’ I don’t care if I sound whiney, or overly-dramatic, or feeble: it’s the truth.

‘We could at least try,’ he begins, his expression begging. ‘Mia said-’

‘I. Can’t. Play. Anymore,’ I state, with greater emphasis – while still trying not to be rude; Marko doesn’t know what he’s asking of me.

The lift touches down and Marko pulls back the door, but just as I think this ordeal is over, he folds his arms across his blazer and turns back to me. We’re now just staring at each other in silence, neither one of us moving, both trying to suss the other out.

‘At least come out tonight, and decide later,’ he suggests

But I’m already shaking my head. I can’t afford to show weakness – I need to be strong at all times; it’s the only reason I’ve survived the last six years. ‘I’m sorry, I’m busy tonight.’ Eating with Dad, and sitting on the couch watching TV, I think, but don’t add.

‘Look, I really want to at least give our playing a shot,’ he tries again. He’s really confused, not sure where to go from here. He’s apparently not used to being denied the things he wants, and for some reason my acceptance is vitally important to him.

Licking my lips I try for the harshness that worked so well at repelling everyone else. ‘This whole manic attitude of yours might work on other people, but not with me. This is a “no,” Marko. You don’t get what you want, not this time.’

Marko’s response is to puff up his chest and harden his gaze, like this is just the start of negations, instead of the end. He must know, deep down, that he’s screwing up, but he doesn’t know how to rectify things and still get the answer he wants – it makes him seem far more vulnerable – more human – and less the figure of worship I’ve heard so much about.

And I don’t need his puppy-dog eyes to make me feel bad: I’m already upset that I need to reject his offer. But turn it down I will, no matter how many times he asks – I won’t travel down a path that will only remind me of what I once was, and how far I’ve fallen.

‘Please move,’ I state, flatly, but the boy doesn’t budge, his eyes continuing to dance about as he searches for the right words to win me over.

I don’t feel like spending another second on this discussion, however, I want to be away from this boy that makes me feel... too many things. I glance past him, and spot the girl’s toilet a short way along the corridor; the one place even Marko wouldn’t dare follow.

‘Fine!’ I snap, and with a grunt I hoist myself to my feet, causing Marko to take a surprised step back. Of course he wouldn’t know I can stand; he assumes the only reason to use a chair is paralysis; he doesn’t know the pain I feel when forced to walk.

While Marko is still staring, open-mouthed and confused, I push past him and make a half-stagger, half-Frankenstein shuffle towards the toilets. He calls something after me, but I don’t look back as I reach the door and tumble through in whirl of limbs.

Panting hard, I fall back against the door, not because I’m worried Marko will try to barge in after me, but because my brittle legs need the support. A few seconds later there’s a tap on the door, and then a tentative voice from close to my head. ‘Pen? Are you... okay?’

There have been many people who treated me like a liar or a cheat when they found out I could walk, but that’s not the way Marko sounds in that moment. His voice is low and tight: he’s concerned and saddened for what he’s done; he’s... doesn’t matter, stop listening.

I don’t want to feel any sorrier for what’s just transpired and the decision I’ve made. There’s a part of me, still, that wants desperately to agree to the boy’s offer; that wonders if maybe – just maybe – this boy is my one chance to start over.

But I’ve known hope before and I’ve learned to fear it. No, even if Marko thinks me a complete idiot for over-reacting in this way; even if he never speaks to me again: better that, than let him think there’s any chance of me ever picking up my violin again.

So I stay silent, and after a minute I hear the boy’s slow footsteps retreating down the corridor. Only then do I breathe a sigh of relief, and slide to the floor.

My heart is rattling in my chest like the beat my mum described. It’s racing in a way I’ve not known it do in a very long time, and while I tell myself it’s probably annoyance, or the strain of my sudden exercise, there’s a part of me, that wonders if it’s excitement.

Calm down, I tell myself; I need to relax and return to my monotonous drone. There’s nothing to get excited about here; it’s already over... I’m sure that’s the last I’ll see of Marko.

Next Chapter: Chapter Two