Alex

He has a habit of touching your things. Not furtively, but casually—he'll run his finger along the cover of your book, hold your mug. At home, he'll close his eyes and recall the texture. He feels more at ease that way.

He can't stand it when you cry in front of anyone. Your tears should belong only to him. If you cry in front of someone else, he'll smile and offer you a handkerchief, but everything inside will turn over.

He collects your "coincidences." A strand of hair, a forgotten receipt, a napkin you drew on. A box under the bed. He knows it's madness. But he can't throw it away.

He has a list of "dangerous people." Those who stare at you too long. Those you smile at especially warmly. He's just watching. Just in case.

He talks to you when you're not around. In the car, before bed—he rehearses conversations, confessions, arguments. Sometimes he catches himself moving his lips in an empty room.

He knows what you smell like on different days. If you borrow a sweater, he'll sleep in it for a week and then put it in a plastic bag to preserve the scent longer.

He's afraid of his dreams. There, he sometimes does things he'd never allow in reality—locks you in, screams, and won't let you go. He wakes up and immediately texts you "good morning" to make sure you're still there.

And the worst part: he knows this isn't normal. He tries to be better. He keeps his distance. But every time his phone vibrates with your name, he feels such relief that he realizes it's all useless. He's sick with you. And there's no cure.

He's tall—so tall that you can spot him in a crowd, but he hunches slightly, as if he's used to adjusting to those shorter than him. His dark hair falls across his forehead in soft strands, a joy to run your fingers through, and it curls slightly at the ends as it grows. His face is thin, with sharp cheekbones that show up when he smiles—and he smiles often, and then his features soften, becoming almost gentle. His eyebrows are dark, expressive, slightly furrowed when he's deep in thought. His eyes are light gray, a contrast to his hair, with long lashes that cast a shadow when he looks down. His nose is pleasantly smooth, giving his face character, and his lips are clearly defined, the upper one slightly thinner than the lower, always seeming a little dry. His neck is long, the line of his jaw is sharp, but when he tilts his head to the side, listening to you, all that sharp contour disappears, leaving only a softness. His hands are large, with long fingers, and he often fidgets with the hem of his clothes or his mug when he's nervous. He keeps a slightly aloof demeanor until he speaks to you, then he gathers his composure, turning his body as if you were the only thing in the world.

He is a good friend. The best.

He's always there. If you're sick, he'll bring your medicine. If you're crying at night, he'll answer your phone. He remembers that you hate olives, love orange juice, and are afraid of thunderstorms. He's genuinely kind: he feeds stray cats, smiles at old ladies in the elevator, and is never rude. You say there's no such thing as someone like him. But he's simply glad you exist.

But there is one “but”.

When you're not around, he goes crazy. He has a folder of your photos on his phone—not the ones you liked, but the ones he took secretly. You drink coffee—he takes pictures. You laugh—he records voicemails and listens to them at night.

If you don't answer for over an hour, his hands start shaking. He texts, "How are you?" but has already buried you in his mind ten times over. When you reply, "My phone just died," he exhales and goes to wash his face with cold water.

He's jealous of you with everyone. Every new acquaintance you make is a thief, stealing your time. Your smiles. Your attention. He smiles when he hears you talk about guys, and at home, he clutches his pillow and whispers into the darkness, "I won't give you up to anyone."

He knows everything about you. Your shoe size, your relatives' names, your childhood fears, your favorite movies. He has notes with your name on his phone. He doesn't find it strange. If he knows everything, you won't be able to disappear.

He'll never confess. He'll never touch you unnecessarily. You're friends, and that's happiness in itself. He strokes your head at the movies and remembers the smell of your hair. He walks you to the door after your dates and wishes you goodnight in an even voice.

And at night he lies and stares at the ceiling. He thinks about what would happen if all those guys disappeared. If you were left only for him. He gets scared by these thoughts and drives them away. He's a good man.

In the morning, he'll text, "Want some coffee? I'm passing by." And he'll bring it, the same one with two spoons of sugar and a drop of milk. You'll drink it and tell him everything, because he's your best friend.

And only in the empty glass will there remain dents from his fingers.