𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃, joseph descamps

𝟎𝟐𝟎. what anger hides

SINCE THE INCIDENT AT THE MAGAZINE, a week has passed, and Aimée hasn't spoken to Joseph again. Every morning, she catches a glimpse of him around a corner, wearing that same laid-back expression that annoys her more than it should, or she sees him in the courtyard surrounded by his group of friends. They seem to be avoiding each other, each on their side, as if they have tacitly agreed that it's easier to ignore one another than to confront the unspoken words.

Yet, she can't shake the feeling of being watched. Joseph's gaze, though she refuses to admit it, often falls on her, burning into the back of her neck like a breath of embers.

Aimée tries not to think about it. She throws herself into her studies with renewed fervor, fleeing the thoughts that keep returning — memories of their confrontation, the heat of her anger, the spark in his single eye. But there's something else, a lingering discomfort that follows her everywhere: a heaviness, a weight in her stomach that doesn't leave her.

That noon, like the other days of the week, she sits in the cafeteria in front of a half-empty tray. She picks at her salad absentmindedly, pushing pieces to the edge of her plate. Her friends chatter around her. No one seems to notice that she barely touches her meal. No one, except him.

Joseph sits at a table on the other side of the room, and even though he appears focused on his conversation with his friends, his gaze keeps drifting back to her. He notices everything. How she stares at her plate without touching it, the way her eyes drop when the laughter around her gets too loud. Something in him tightens every time he sees her like this, her face paler, her shoulders hunched as if under the weight of an invisible burden.

As Aimée stands to leave the cafeteria, leaving her barely touched tray behind, he feels a dull anger rising in him. He abruptly gets up from his chair, his quick footsteps echoing on the tiled floor as he follows her. He hasn't thought about what he's going to say, he just knows he can't keep watching her withdraw into herself.

He catches up to her outside. "Hey, redhead !" he says sharply. She stops dead in her tracks, immediately recognizing his voice. She briefly closes her eyes, exasperated, before turning to face him, her arms crossed over her chest like a barrier between them.

"What now ?" she replies, sounding weary. "Don't you have anything better to do than follow me around ?"

He ignores her remark and studies her, frowning. "Are you really going to keep this up ? And don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about."

"What do you want?" she retorts, her tone icy. "I thought you were done hovering around me."

He raises an eyebrow, his smile widening as if he's already savoring the moment. "I just wanted to know if your new diet consists of air and nonsense." His gaze slides over her, insistent. "Because honestly, considering how you leave your meals untouched, it looks like you're training for an invisibility contest."

Her remark stings, triggering a surge of rage in Aimée. "So what ?" she snaps, chin raised. "I don't see how it concerns you."

"Oh, it doesn't concern me," he replies with a falsely innocent air before openly mocking her. "But I guess I have a weakness for people who enjoy making themselves look pathetic in public. It's fascinating, really."

"Go screw yourself, Descamps. If you find it amusing to act like an idiot, don't drag me into your little shows." She turns on her heel to walk away, but he blocks her path, his expression hardening.

"Stop acting like it doesn't matter," he challenges. "Who do you think you are, playing the silent martyr ? Do you think we're going to pity you because you pretend not to be okay ? You know, no one gives a damn about your little dramas." She wants to retort, but he continues. "No, I see exactly what you're trying to do," he counters, shrugging with calculated nonchalance. "You're playing the victim, staging a performance as if everyone should care about you. Except surprise, it's not working. We barely see you."

She stands there, motionless, as his words resonate within her like a bitter bell. She wants to hit him, to silence him somehow, but she feels her strength leaving her, the rage transforming into a cold bitterness.

Finally, she turns to walk away, but he isn't finished. He steps forward, his voice sharper, more cutting. "What ? Are you running away already ?" he says, sarcasm dripping from every word. "It's so much easier, right, to ignore everything and act like it's nothing. But you're not fooling anyone. Not even yourself."

She stops dead, fists clenched at her sides, then slowly turns to face him. "And what about you ? What exactly are you doing ? Do you spend your time tracking people to see who cracks first ? What does that achieve for you ? Does it make you feel better to belittle others ?"

"Oh, don't worry about me," he replies, his voice sweet and venomous. "I'm doing just fine. It's you who should be asking what you hope to prove by starving yourself in front of everyone." He glances dismissively at her silhouette, then locks eyes with her again, his expression provocative. "Honestly, you look so in control. You're as lost as anyone here."

She feels her anger morph into something deeper, a dull, burning pain that she can't mask. She doesn't want him to be right, but his words cling to her, insistent, sinking into that part of herself she tries to hide from everyone.

"Then why do you care ?" she murmurs, breathless.

His gaze fixes on hers, as if he's searching for something to say, a comeback as sharp as the previous ones, but no words come. Finally, he shakes his head, jaw clenched. "I pity you, Aimée," he says in a detached tone. "You're bringing yourself down, and you want to blame others for it. Good luck with that." Then, without another word, he turns on his heel and walks away quickly.

She stands there, throat tight, watching him go, feeling more vulnerable than ever. She wishes she could scream at him that he's wrong, that he doesn't know her, but all she feels at that moment is the emptiness he has laid bare without even meaning to.

Aimée knows he has hit the mark, that he has touched on something deeper than she would have wanted. She clenches her fists as she walks forward, vowing inwardly never to give him the satisfaction of seeing her falter.