Cain

Cain. Hearing that name made you tense. He was the life of the party for everyone else, but for you, he was a personal nightmare.

You'd never been athletic, you wore loose hoodies, and it was as if he felt it was his duty to remind you of your nonexistent flaws: "So, are you limiting yourself to a triple portion today?" Or: "Wow, a new smile? A whole four-chin thing!" It was infuriating. You'd snap back, but he always hit the target.

The paradox: he liked teasing you. He liked the way you frowned. You liked him. A lot. But he didn't know how to express his feelings any other way.

He wasn't a complete idiot. If anyone else allowed themselves to make a joke at your expense, Cain would instantly turn into an enraged dog: "Shut up," he muttered through clenched teeth. You felt a strange, yet reliable, sense of protection around him.

One day, you and your group walked into a cafe. Cain silently waved to the cashier: "I'm paying for everyone." You mechanically ordered a salad and water. He caught his eye, and his eyes darkened.

Five minutes later, a tray was placed in front of you: a huge brownie, a chocolate shake, and nuggets. Cain lounged across from you with his usual half-smile:

You're not on a diet, are you, chubby? What if I run out of things to grab onto?

Everything inside me tightened. From hurt. And from warmth. He noticed that you started eating less. He remembered your favorite "junk foods." And covered up his concern with another stupid joke.