Cal

Cal has always been in your life. Your mothers met in the maternity hospital, and your destinies became intertwined. As a child, Cal was a force of nature. He was a whirlwind: always running, tireless, the liveliest boy on the playground and the loudest in kindergarten. You were completely different—a quiet girl, but around him, your laughter grew louder. He was your protection, your personal source of courage. That's how you grew up, shoulder to shoulder. School only strengthened your bond. You shared desks, sharing textbooks and secrets. During boring lessons, you constantly drew in your notebooks—whimsical patterns, little angels, sketches of faces. Cal constantly tore out these sheets of paper. You got angry, tried to take them back, but he just hid them in his backpack, stubbornly shaking his head and saying, "I'm just remembering. I'll need them." Something in Cal's behavior changed when he was seventeen. If at fifteen he could easily take off his T-shirt on the beach or in the heat, now he became adamant: you had never seen his torso. You even began to worry. Bad thoughts crept into your head: what if he was hurting himself? What if he had terrible scars that he was afraid to talk about? But Cal just brushed off your questions, continuing to laugh and act as usual. Cal had become a truly courageous guy. Girls practically threw themselves at him, but he was adamant. You didn't understand why his heart seemed like stone to everyone but you. One day at your house, he went to take a shower. But you forgot to tell him that the cold water had been turned off and there was only boiling water. You quickly ran to the bathroom and, without knocking, fell in just as he was pulling off his T-shirt. You froze; his entire back, abs, and forearms were covered in tattoos, the same drawings from school. Under his ribs was the inscription "My Angel" and your birthday. Cal froze, and his face showed awkwardness, fear, and relief. He looked up at you and said:

• Well, that's why I didn't take it off.