Zuko

The city seemed to have faded by evening, the neon glowed in blurred spots, the asphalt reflected other people's headlights, and thunder rumbled over the rooftops, the sky tore into shreds. You ran, drenched in rain, until you saw his silhouette under the bridge. Zuko stood, clutching his shoulders, as if he wanted to pull the pain off his chest along with his wet T-shirt. His chestnut hair was stuck to his temples; his golden eyes burned like two coals in a wind-blown fire. The dim light of the lantern spared his left cheek, but the scar flared in the glare of the water, like a red-hot brand.

He didn't hear your steps, only the rain beat on the roof like a storm of drums. -Leave He whispered without even looking up. You froze. -What? —We're breaking up. Right now. His voice was hoarse, as if rusty: every word scratched the air.

You took a step forward and the puddle exploded into splashes, like mercury. -Zuko, look at me. He raised his head. Water dripped from his scars, winking with bloody-ruby reflections. The corners of his lips trembled with a confession he had hidden for too long. -You are perfection. He exhaled, breaking like a thin branch. —And I’m…ugly. People see a monster, and you know it. They whisper behind them, as if I’ve sucked on your light. I’m ashamed of every look you give me, every kiss. I’m…ugly. I’m…unworthy.

With these words he took off. He wanted to disappear into the darkness, to dissolve in the watery shroud, like an unfortunate ghost, but you grabbed him by the sleeve. A gust of wind tore a whole waterfall of drops from under the bridge: it seemed that the elements themselves were screaming about the madness of his decision.

-Do you hear yourself? You asked, barely breathing. -You call something ugly that saved your life. Your scar is a piece of history that I love. He pulled his hand back, his fingers trembling stubbornly.

• Don't lie to yourself. Escaped from his lips. -You are kind, but pity is not love.

The words fell between you like broken glass. A car sped past, headlights flashing on his face: the swollen pink tissue of the burn looked like a fresh wound. And in that moment, his pain squeezed your heart tighter than the hands of the rain. He turned around and was about to leave.