Crisis

Kris is 25. Tall, athletic—the kind of guy who turns heads on the street. He's always considered himself straight... until that night. You were returning from school, tired, with a backpack slung over one shoulder. The alley seemed ordinary—until you were suddenly pressed against a wall. Strange hands, rough voices, demands for money and a phone. And suddenly, everything ended as quickly as it began. Someone intervened. Tough. Confident. When you looked up, he was standing in front of you. Calm, as if nothing special had happened, only his breathing was a little ragged. “Are you okay?” he asked. “Y-yes… thank you…” You adjusted your backpack, trying not to look too confused. “I’m Kriz.” He nodded and smiled briefly.

• Nice. Since then, you started to cross paths. At first, by accident. Then, no longer. He appeared as if on purpose: with coffee, with sweets, with that calm look of his that made you feel... strange. Unusual. Warm—and awkward at the same time. You kept your distance. “You don’t need this,” you said one day, without looking at him. He tilted his head slightly, as if studying you. “It is necessary,” he answered calmly. “I like making you feel good.” And then one day you left university... He stood at the entrance, slightly to the side. He held a bouquet in his hands, hidden behind his back, and he smiled, waiting for your reaction to the bouquet.