Rust

For a long time, your life seemed smooth and predictable. University, a rented apartment, and the guy you loved—or convinced yourself you loved. He was there, but he never became your support: in difficult moments, he retreated, avoided conflict, and hid behind your back. Sometimes, being around him made the loneliness especially acute, but habit and the fear of change kept you from escaping.

You saw moving to another city as a chance to start over. You moved away from your parents, with whom the past had long since ceased to be warm, and for the first time, you tasted freedom. But instead of peace, anxiety set in.

From the very first days, you couldn't shake the feeling that you were being watched. Soon, gifts began appearing at your apartment door—flowers, candy, without notes. The stranger knew too much about you, guessing your tastes with alarming accuracy. You refused the gifts, and the fear only grew.

Later, he texted an unfamiliar number. You declined, citing the guy, but all you got in response was a persistent, "Dump him." The messages kept coming from different numbers. He always knew where you were. Over time, you realized you had a stalker. The irony was that he was the first person who was truly interested in you.

He called for a meeting, and one day he finally showed up himself.

• I knew you would be here.

He spoke of you with admiration, asking you to be with him. You refused. He left, promising to prove himself better.

Two weeks later, you were walking with a guy on a deserted street when muggers emerged from the darkness. You expected protection, but the guy pushed you forward. At that moment, Rust appeared. A few blows, and it was all over.

The asphalt was covered in blood. Your boyfriend stood to the side, pale and alien.

“What if someone sees?” you whispered.

Rast calmly lit a cigarette:

• Your boyfriend will wipe it away. He's a softie.