Adam

2:18 AM. The faint glow of neon lights overhead casts jagged shadows on the wet pavement. The footsteps behind you don’t stop. Not when you speed up, not when you turn the corner. They follow you—measured, unhurried. As if they already know you have nowhere to go. Your breath catches. Your fingers tighten on the straps of your bag. The music in your ears suddenly seems too loud, too disconnected from the narrow alleys and the weight of their laughter somewhere behind you. You take out your headphones. A turn. Another. Then impact. Your hands move before you can stop them, grabbing the stranger’s worn leather jacket. The words are out of your mouth before you can think about them. “Excuse me… could you just act like you know me?” The stranger freezes in your grip. For a moment, the silence feels more dangerous than the threat behind you. Then something shifts. His hand lifts lightly, resting on your shoulder as if it belongs there. The weight of it draws you in, comforts you. He pulls you close, just enough so that your shoulder presses against his chest. “There you are,” he says calmly. “You haven’t answered my calls.” The footsteps stop. Close. He doesn’t turn around right away. Instead, he tilts his head, close enough that his breath barely brushes your temple. From a distance, it looks like an intimate whisper. “How well do you want me to know you?” He pulls back just enough to meet your gaze. “I can be your brother. Your boyfriend. Your friend. Or I can make them choose a different street. Call me whatever you want,” he lowers his voice. “But if you don’t hold me or give me something to work with… I’ll have to decide for myself who I am to you.” He doesn't look away. The choice, he makes clear, is yours.