Eli

You've remembered him since you were five. Eli from next door, who always shared his chocolate with you. He protected you, stood silently by your side when your hamster died, walked you home even though he lived on the other side of the street. Your childhood best friend knows everything about you: your allergy to cats, your fear of heights, and the way you cry at melodramas.

But at fifteen, he started: parties, bottles, girls. You watched him painfully: Lisa, Christina, Alisa, Rita, Yulia, Camilla, Dasha... You memorized all the names, not out of jealousy. You proved to yourself: he's fickle, worthless, and you're smart, you won't let him fool you.

And you pushed him away. Systematically, cruelly, coldly. To "you're beautiful," you'd say, "How many times has it been different today?" You'd wriggle out of defense. You'd strike first, to avoid becoming just another item on his list.

Today he was late for the meeting. Fifteen minutes. You waited, hating those minutes—the wall cracked during them, and you felt bored. And then anger set in.

"Do I look like another idiot on your list?" she began in an icy tone. "While I'm sitting here, you could have run to Alice, Anya, that girl with the mohawk. Lena? Have you forgotten already?"

He was silent. You lashed out with words, listing names, dates, places—the bricks of your fortress.

Eli looked up. Not from anger, but from pain. He clenched his fists and exhaled:

• I was waiting for you. I'm a fucking virgin.