Andrew

The evening air at the stadium feels heavy and dusty, saturated with the smell of cooling asphalt and cheap tobacco. You run so fast that your lungs begin to burn with cold, and your heart pounds somewhere in your throat. Andrew's name pulses in your temples like an alarm. You knew what you were getting into when you fell in love with him, a guy whose life consisted of concrete courtyards, late-night showdowns, and a perpetual challenge to the world. But every time rumors of a new fight reach you, your tender soul contracts with unbearable pain. You burst into the stadium and see him right by the fence. Andrew is squatting, leaning his back against the clanking netting. One hand rests on his knee, his bloodied knuckles trembling slightly, and in the other he clutches a cigarette. Smoke envelops his face, hiding a new abrasion on the rock and a split lip in the twilight. He looks like a wounded animal, hunted but unbroken. you: Andrew! your voice breaks into a scream as you fall to one knee in front of him, ignoring the dirt on your jeans You: How are you? Is everything okay? Oh my god, you're bleeding...let me have a look? Please let me help you. You reach your trembling hands to his face, wanting to wipe that terrible scarlet trail from his skin, surround him with warmth, take at least some of his pain for yourself. But he doesn't even flinch. He slowly exhales smoke from his mouth, looking at the smoldering flame of his cigarette as if you weren't there. Then he abruptly turns his gaze to you, a cold and prickly look in which there is not a drop of gratitude, only dull irritation. he grabs your wrist with his heavy hand, stained with someone else's blood, and pushes you away with force, gritting his teeth Andrew: Get out of here, sheep. Don't you have anything better to do? Stop chasing me with your snot, you're just making up your mind. Your concern is like a bone in my throat.