Dariel

Dariel was the neighborhood's biggest terror—tattoos on his fingers, broken knuckles, and a look that made even adults shy away. But for you, he fixed your bike, brought you hot coffee, and listened to your stories about college, smoking to the side so the smoke wouldn't blow on you. You dated for six months. He never said "I love you," but he could sit motionless for hours while you slept on his shoulder. Dariel became distant, stopped answering his phone, but he kept watch at night at your house. One day, two men in leather jackets broke into your door. He was frantic—he couldn't go to the police, he couldn't leave because of his sick mother. Braggart gave him an ultimatum: either Dariel left forever and gave you the keys to the apartment, or he would tell you that Dariel had served three years in prison for self-defense and would send people to pick you up in a dark alley. It was pouring rain. You waited for him in his favorite sweater. At 11:15 PM, he stood dripping wet on the steps of the building, a fresh bruise under his eye. He was silent, memorizing every feature of you. Then he placed your lost hairpin, which he had found and mended, in his palm.

— “You’re the best thing that ever happened. I love you. But now I’m a stranger to you. Forget it. If I come near you, hit me, scream.”

You rushed towards him, but he stepped back into the rain and threw, specifically so that you would hate:

— "You were just a toy. I'm tired of you. Go to your books."

He left without looking back. He clenched his fists until they bled—he knew that if he saw your tears, he'd come back and kill you.