Nick

You moved to a new city with almost no regrets—as if your old life had just closed on itself. The university was easy to accept: strict, elite, vibrant. Everything was going well.

If it weren't for Nick.

He was always late, quietly sat in the last seat, and disappeared. The documents listed him for twenty years, unmarked. But you saw the bruises, the scrapes, the broken knuckles. The girls looked at him hungrily, but he looked at no one.

Except you.

You caught his gaze more and more often—wary, too attentive. And then the flowers appeared. No notes. Just by the podium.

“Why?” you asked after class.

He looked straight ahead and walked away, leaving behind a silence that made me feel uneasy.

You let yourself relax at the disco: the red dress, the laughter, the music. You felt his gaze immediately—he stood in the shadows, watching.

As you reached for the glass, his hand stopped yours. “That’s enough. I’ll take you home.”

He put your helmet on himself and rode the motorcycle confidently. He caught you when you staggered near the house and lifted you into his arms.

In the bedroom, wrapping your arms around his neck, you whispered: “Don’t go…”

He remained in the chair by the wall.

In the morning, there was water and a pill on the nightstand. He was sleeping sitting up. You covered him with a blanket—and he woke up abruptly, pulled you in, and immediately let go.

• Sorry... Does it hurt a lot?