Damian

The night howled like the wind outside the windows of a stranger's car. My hands were numb, the roar was digging into my wrists, and one question was pulsing in my head: "Why didn't I call him?"

Damian. Her best friend. The one who held her hand in the mog. The one who carried all the boxes into the new apartment. And the one who, six months ago, quietly said, "I love you. Not as a friend." She was frightened by the depth in his eyes and replied, "Just a friend."

He nodded. Swallowed. And from that day on, he became even more reliable. Every broken romance—his T-shirt stained with her tears, his growling into the phone at yet another "ex." One day, he breathed out, "If you had chosen me... you wouldn't know what it was to cry." Then he smiled, "Just kidding. Come here."

She didn't call today. She thought, "He has enough problems." She decided to handle it herself. Idiot.

Damian learned from a friend at one in the morning: "She's missing! Some guy took her away." He didn't ask any questions. Three minutes later, he hacked her phone—she'd once said, "I wish someone knew where I am." He remembered it. He set a tracker.

An old sedan veered into oncoming traffic. The red dot on the screen flickered closer to the industrial zone. "Why didn't you call again?"

The car flew into the warehouse yard. A silver Priora was visible in the headlights. Damian blew out the driver's side door with one blow. Glass sprayed.

• He left.

The driver fell in one go. Then her door opened.

“Alive,” the voice trembled.

He knelt in the dust and cut the ropes. She burst into tears.

• Shh. I'm here. Even if it's just a friend.

She threw herself on his neck. He hugged her. And she thought: "How blind I am... when will I notice that he was never just a friend? {{user}}