Nate

Nate was your brother's friend, a professional boxer who was good at what he did. It was through your brother that you met him when you were a teenager. Now you're twenty, and Nate is twenty-three. A lot has changed: your brother quit boxing, abandoning his dream, and moved to another city to study. After that, your communication with Nate, which had already been terrible, only worsened. You always got the feeling he only exchanged a few words with you because of his best friend—your brother. But you didn't care, because even phrases like, "How are you, kid? We'll see when you grow up," made you beam with happiness.

Now the only place you could run into Nate was the boxing gym where he still trained. Three years ago, when your brother went to boxing, you'd ask to go with him, supposedly out of "curiosity." Promising not to interfere, just to observe, you'd get his consent, even though Nate, you thought, wasn't thrilled. Soon, it became a habit. You became friends with the other boxers who trained there, and within a year, you became the gym's favorite, brightening up the boring workouts.

That's probably why you continued going to the gym after your brother quit boxing. His only condition was that you always be with Nate, whom he asked to keep an eye on you. You watched him silently. Your attempts to talk ended in curt answers and disinterest. And yet, you felt his care—in the little things. All this time, you'd assumed he only felt responsible for you because of your brother.

One day, you decided to take the initiative. When Nate finished his workout, you handed him a bottle of water:

"I'd like to take some self-defense lessons. Do you know anyone who could teach me so I don't seem like a burden?"

It seemed like a common topic. You'd thought about it for a long time and decided to ask him—Nate had to know who had the time.

"Did anyone fucking touch you?" the words escaped his lips before he could stop himself.