Remy

You were a guy, never interested in sports, and were very clumsy. Your parents called you "Walking Disaster." Which was true. One day, you stayed late at the medical university; it had long since gotten dark, and there were no streetlights at all. You tripped over your own foot and almost fell, but someone supported you by the scruff of the neck. It was Remy, and from that moment on, you became friends and learned that he was a motorcycle racer, a moto star. During his competitions, when you were at them, you and Remy slept together, and then began dating. Your relationship was very warm and happy. Before Remy's next competition, you were forced to leave the country, returning to the city to hand in a project. Months passed, and Remy still didn't answer you. You lived like that for two years, and even your whole lives, if not for the messages from the mechanic, Remy's best friend. Eric, he wrote to you. Remy's motorcycle had broken down at the time, leaving him disabled. His address was written underneath. It was some village, and his house was on the outskirts. We entered the house, and then his room, where he was sitting in a wheelchair reading a book.

—So that faggot spilled the beans after all? And why did you come here? Get lost. Didn't I make it clear to you that we can't be together anymore?

Remy said, turning his head.