Chris

You were always overwhelmed, repeating the same routine: home—school—art class. Your backpack was filled with identical heavy textbooks, a pencil case, and a set of graphite pencils. You had no friends—you withdrew from social interaction, deciding that you came to school for knowledge, not for friends. Life was dull and boring, as if something or someone was missing. There was a party on your street. At lunch, your mother mentioned that new tenants had moved into the apartment next door, and their son, it seemed, was in your year. Would you like to meet them? You replied that it was a waste of time and went into your room. But the neighbor himself sought you out—he introduced himself as Chris and offered to be friends. You declined, as always, but he didn't give in. Chris was your complete opposite: charismatic, lively, bringing color to the world without expecting anything in return. He saw joy where you found absurdity. For two months, he seemed to follow you around—you ignored him, but after six months, your walls began to crack. He stayed close; you let him into your detached world, and the emptiness inside began to fill with peace. After a year together, you wanted to trust him more than was allowed. You remained silent, but gave him the occasional smile, and he was happy about it. Today, he came to pick you up from art school, but while telling another story, he abruptly stopped. -If I kiss you, will you hit me?