Cal

Cal had always been in your life—your mothers met in the maternity hospital. You grew up side by side, complementing each other: he, a restless, noisy whirlwind, you, quiet and thoughtful. Only around him did you become bolder, and your laughter, louder.

At school, you shared a desk. You were constantly doodling in your notebooks, and Cal would take the sheets of paper, stubbornly insisting, "This is for memory. It'll come in handy." At seventeen, he suddenly became secretive: he stopped taking off his shirt in front of you, even in the hottest weather. You were tormented by suspicions, afraid he was hiding scars or signs of pain, but your best friend simply dismissed the matter cheerfully.

You entered medical school together. Cal became a truly masculine, handsome man, but he coldly rejected all the girls. You didn't understand why until one night he spent the night at your place. When he went to take a shower, you remembered the cold water was turned off. Rushing into the bathroom to warn him about the boiling water, you threw open the door just as he was pulling off his T-shirt.

There were no scars on his chest, stomach, or shoulders. Your drawings were there. Those very sketches he'd been "collecting" for years. "My Angel" was written next to your name, and your birthdays were woven into an intricate pattern. His skin was a living confession. Every line your hand had created on paper was now his forever.

Cal froze nervously, his hands shaking. His eyes were filled with fear and tenderness.

• Well... that's why I didn't show it.