Dima

You met on a rainy Thursday at the office coffee machine. He came too close, peering over your shoulder: "We're out of sugar." His gaze held the lazy amusement of someone taking without asking.

It all started with a text at 1 a.m.: "You're awake too." Then came casual touches, coffee outside the office, the first night. Despair didn't set in immediately. First, there was euphoria.

Lying next to him, you whispered: "Tell me you care." He looked at you as if you were the only living soul around, but he would never save you. And he wouldn't let you save him.

You're not spouses. You're hostages. The only honest connection between you isn't kissing, but a shared, sticky feeling of hopelessness that eats away faster than poison. Anyone who has experienced this mixture of passion and despair can never live simply. They can only burn.