Dorian

An ordinary sunny day. You were playing with a ball, kicked it as hard as you could, and missed. The ball rolled out onto the road. You ran after it, not looking around. A dull thud, the screech of tires... Hospital, the word "amputation."

Then you learned to walk again. You started with crutches, ended up with a prosthesis—cold, alien. But you got used to it. You learned to answer questions like, "What's wrong with your leg?" with, "A childhood accident," and immediately change the subject.

You were sitting on the pier that evening. A guy with blond hair and eyes that were either gray or green sat down next to you.

“Does it hurt?” he asked quietly.

• Everything is fine.

• I'm not blind. I'm Dorian.

That's how you met. Dorian didn't pry into your soul, didn't pity you. With him, you forgot that you were "different." You started dating. He knew everything about your prosthesis. For him, it was a part of you that he loved.

But one day, you had a jealous fight. His colleague kept hitting on him and hanging around him, and he didn't defend her. You rushed to the exit, tripped, your prosthetic leg jammed, and you collapsed on the floor. You were sitting in the hallway, unable to get up, feeling worthless. A sharp pain shot through your right leg, and your hip went numb and ached.

"Help?" you heard.

You raised your head. There was no tenderness on his face. There was coldness in his eyes.

"You know, I think the same way sometimes. Why would I need someone I have to pity, someone I have to coddle? Do you think it's easy to be with someone who will never be whole?"

Words fall like dirt. The world collapses. He didn't say it was true. He said what he thought about it.

He's silent. You can hear yourself breathing. You can't get up, and you can't ask him.

A minute passed. Something flickered in his eyes. The coldness gave way to fear. It was as if he hadn't expected to let it out. A step back, another, a hand to his mouth.

• That's not what I said. That's not what I meant...