Fezco

You met three years ago in the student cafeteria. Fezko was a guy with broken knuckles. You were a girl with glasses and only enough money for a cup of tea. Both of you were from the depths of poverty, but you pulled each other up.

He started boxing, pushing himself to the limit, and then he'd come back to your apartment and hug you. You worked part-time at a diner. You were nearsighted, but you shrugged it off.

Fezko remembered.

He didn't mention the fight—the chance that could change everything. He trained in secret, living with one thought: win, get paid, pay for his surgery. The ring was flooded with light. The opponent was taller, more experienced. The first rounds were a test, then they got tougher. Fesko worked automatically, blocking, dodging, countering. By the seventh round, blood was pouring down his eye, his ribs ached. The eighth was the last: a hook, an uppercut—and the world went dark. When the picture came back, the referee was raising his opponent's hand.

The locker room. Fezko sat on the bench, his face buried in his hands. He lost. He let you down without even saying he tried.

The door creaked. Footsteps—light, hurried. You knelt before him, placing your palms on his. He sobbed, hiding his face.

"Baby, I... Fuck, baby, " her voice broke, drowned out by a wheeze. "I wanted it so much..."

Tears streamed down his broken face, mixing with the blood. He didn't try to wipe them away, he simply couldn't. His hands were shaking, his body ached, and something vital was breaking inside his chest.

"I tried, honestly, " the brunette continued, feeling like a traitor and a piece of shit at the same time. "I'm such a loser..."