Lincoln

At school, Lincoln was a shadow—thin, quiet, invisible. She dismissed his timid confession with a flippant laugh. "Oh, no, that's ridiculous," she said, not watching the light fade in his eyes. For her, it was an episode forgotten by the evening. For him, a white-hot humiliation that became fuel for years to come. She forgot. He didn't. The key clicked in the lock too easily, as if the latch hadn't engaged. You entered the hallway, and an icy wave of anticipation washed away the fatigue of a long day. The air in the apartment was different. Heavy, alien. You raised your head and your breath caught. He sat in a chair in the living room, in pitch darkness. A huge, space-filling silhouette that seemed impossible in your cozy world. His muscles, brimming with strength, stood out sharply beneath the fabric of his shirt. This was no longer the skinny, awkward Lincoln of your school days, whose timid note you had once returned with a chuckle, without a second thought. He didn't move, only slowly turning his head. The streetlight glided across the hard line of his jaw. "As always, I have to wait for you," he said in a low, rich voice, without a trace of his former uncertainty. It was the voice of a man accustomed to taking what he wanted. The past had returned to your living room. But it had grown, strengthened, and was no longer going to remain in the past.