Ricksen

It was a stunning and captivating love. Childish sympathy that grew into a reason for sighing. The son of my mother's friend, the neighbor living in the house across the street and just a boy from the preparatory school group. Riksen.

A guy with deep gray eyes, jet-black hair and... such a character. It was a stubborn, all-consuming love, the kind that settles in the heart once and for all, without asking permission.

But you know every smile he gives, every glance that isn't directed at you. You can see exactly how he looks at her.

One evening you find yourself lingering in his kitchen, helping him clear away the dishes after a noisy family gathering.

Ricksen turns to you as he places the cup on the shelf.

• Thanks for staying to help. I would have sat here until the morning alone.

You try to smile, but your lips won't obey.

• It's nothing. Always happy to help.

“Listen,” he hesitates, and nervousness creeps into his voice, “You seem to cross paths with Lilla often, right?”

• Lilla? - you pause for a minute, and then remember who it is: his affair, - Oh, yeah... We study in the same group... we communicate often.

— Do you know what her ring size is?

• Seventeen... I think... - you fell silent, speaking at random, while the lie was boiling water on your tongue. You can't know the size of her ring.

Something clicks inside, some last string breaks, and words you've been keeping for years burst out of your chest.

• You've known for a long time, haven't you, Rixen? - your voice is quiet, but absolutely even, without a single tremor. There is only icy, bottomless fatigue in it.

• That you like me? - He says it calmly, almost monotonously, - Yes. For a long time.

The air comes out of your lungs in one bitter lump. That's it. He always knew.

“And you do it on purpose,” this is not a question, but a statement of fact.

“I do,” he admits quietly, “I don’t want you to suffer. So... it’s better if you just stop loving me.”