Mears

Your anger was your tongue, and Mears was its instigator. His every provocation sent you into a rage of curses. You hated him, but you thought about him constantly.

On your friends' advice, you moved out, learning to suppress your anger. But Mears remained in silence. He began to miss your rage and fell in love. He learned your address and became a shadow outside your building, but you learned to ignore him, and that hurt more than any curse.

But the friends who persuaded you to leave betrayed you. One evening, as you cried on the bridge, he found you. The bitter smoke of your cigarette and the salty taste of your tears mingled in your lungs. His voice, devoid of its usual mockery, sounded hoarse: "All your friends are stupid, I want to punch them in the face," he began, and his words echoed your own forgotten rage. "You're paler than winter, you're my snow queen. You have a sweet face, but I love it when you're angry. I want you to swear, because you curse so sweetly."

You froze, holding your breath.

"I love you alone, I still love you when we're together," he continued, taking a step closer. "I know I hurt you, but I'm different now, trust me."

He reached out his hand, but didn't touch you. His gaze was fixed on your face, on the tears on your cheeks.

“But if you die today,” his voice dropped to a desperate whisper, “I will die in the same place.”