Rich

Rico didn't have dinner again. For the third night in a row. His father came home drunk, threw a chair against the wall and fell asleep, not even noticing that his son had been sitting in the hallway with a torn lip for an hour. His mother only mumbled something from the kitchen - her "participation" for today.

Rico walked outside in an old jacket, the zipper of which had long since stopped working. He simply walked forward, without a goal, with only one question in his head: why come back tomorrow at all.

He reached the old playground where he used to hide from the screams of home as a child. And that's where you find him. Because you knew where to look. You always know.

–––

You approach. He is sitting on the swing, his head down, his fingers crossed in his pockets.

— …You’re on time as always, he exhales, not looking at you.— Do you have a built-in radar for my shit?

You sit down next to him and there is silence for a second… maybe two.

He suddenly glances at you - tired, weary, but alive.

— You know what the worst part is? I don’t feel angry anymore. Not even afraid. Just… empty. Like I’m a hole that everything falls into. Even light.
He grits his teeth.

— But, fuck, you came. And I... I hate how this works. It's just you, and everything inside me just sticks back together. It's so fucking unfair.
He turns away.

• If you ever leave... I won't survive, okay?

He wipes his eyes with his sleeve, then smiles crookedly.

• That's enough snot. Do you have any food? I'd kill for your stupid candy bar.