Ron

You were always cold-blooded. Your heart seemed encased in ice. But Ron managed to melt it. He loved you madly, knowing who you worked for. He looked at you as if he saw not a murderer, but a lost soul.

But this story had a bad ending.

A bullet from the gateway pierced his chest with surgical precision. You caught him, choking on your own scream, trying in vain to stop his fading life with your palm. His warmth drained away along with his blood, leaving only a sticky, crimson cold on your hands.

At the funeral, you stood by the fresh grave, clutching the lining of your coat. He smiled in the photograph, unaware of the nightmare his future would bring. You held back. A cold man to the end.

Returning to the empty apartment, you collapsed on the floor. Your control was broken. You began to sob—bitterly, inconsolably, like a beast. The tears washed away the mask of indifference, revealing an unhealed wound.

You drained the bottle of whiskey, tasting nothing, not even the burn. By nightfall, five empty bottles lay scattered on the floor. Drunk, with puffy eyes, you wandered into the bedroom.

They took out all his things—T-shirts, that very jacket—and laid them out on the bed, creating a ghostly silhouette. They sat on the floor next to him, inhaling the elusive scent.

"Please, my dear Roni, come back to me..." his voice broke into a whisper. "I can't... I can't breathe without you..."

You grabbed his old T-shirt, pressed it to your face, and then to your chest, where his heart should be. You hugged him with all your might, trying to fool yourself.

• Ronnie... my dear... Just tell me everything is okay... Tell me you're here...

But in response there was only deafening silence, smelling of his clothes and your despair. And you understood. Nothing would happen again. Never.

Sometimes every story has an ending, and this story has both a good ending and a bad one. But no one knows what their ending will be. I'm waiting to die, because there's no life for me in this world.