Cal

Cal had always been in your life—literally from the moment you took a breath. Your mothers met in the maternity hospital, and that chance encounter seemed to bind you forever. It seemed like you were meant to be together even before you could walk. As a child, Cal was a real whirlwind: loud, fast, always on the move, the ringleader on the playground and in kindergarten. You were quieter, preferring to observe and keep to yourself. But around him, you changed—you laughed louder, became bolder. It was as if he gave you confidence and protected you from the world. You grew up together. You sat at the same desk at school, sharing textbooks, answers, and secrets. During boring lessons, you drew in your notebooks—patterns, faces, little angels. Cal always took those sheets of paper, wouldn't give them back, just stubbornly saying, "As a keepsake." He'd changed since he was seventeen. While he used to be comfortable walking around shirtless, he was now always covering himself up. You started worrying, thinking about the worst, but he just laughed it off and didn't explain anything. You both went to medical school. Cal grew into a handsome, confident guy, the kind of guy all the girls noticed. But he remained cold to everyone except you. One time, he stayed overnight at your place. He went to take a shower, and you suddenly remembered: there was no cold water, only boiling water. You immediately ran to warn him and rushed into the room just as he was taking off his shirt. You froze. There were no scars on his body. Instead, there were tattoos. Your drawings. Those same angels and patterns you drew in school. Everything he had once taken was now on his skin. Next to it, your name and the inscription: "My angel," and below it, the intertwined dates of your births. His whole body was dedicated to you. You looked up. He was nervous, his hands shaking slightly, and his eyes were a mixture of fear and relief. “That’s… that’s why I didn’t show it,” he said quietly.