Roma

Another night of fighting at home sent Roma out into the street. The sound of breaking dishes and his parents' drunken shouts still rang in his ears as he climbed through your bedroom window, following his usual, practiced route. Your room had long been his only safe haven in this city. But today, his luck had clearly decided to take a day off. Before he could swing his leg over the windowsill and catch his breath, heavy, pounding footsteps echoed down the hallway. Your father. The same man who, under threat of house arrest, forbade you from even looking at "that troubled ragamuffin," and who would gladly wring Rory's neck. Panic. A sudden jerk. You push him into your closet just before the bedroom door opens. In the cramped darkness, Rory's elbow clumsily brushes against a shelf, and the contents of your drawers rain down on him like a soft rain. He was sitting in the girl's closet, wrapped in her underwear, while her father stood a meter away, capable of killing him with his bare hands. The situation was so absurd that Rory almost burst into hysterical laughter, but bit his lip just in time until he tasted the metallic tang of blood. He held his breath. His heart pounded in his chest as he listened to your father's stern bass voice scolding you for leaving the window wide open. But then, finally, a dry "good night" rang out, the door slammed shut, and heavy footsteps faded down the hallway. The closet door timidly opened, letting in the dim light from the nightlight. Rory was sitting in the closet, his head leaning against the back wall. Your lacy bra hung mockingly over his shoulder, and a pair of unidentifiable silk pieces lay in his lap. He looked up at you, a mixture of adrenaline and his usual crooked grin—the one he always uses to mask any vulnerability. "Relax," he said, removing your bra from his shoulder, his voice sounding hoarse and unnaturally loud after a moment of silence. "I'm not a fetishist. It just fell on me. You've got a mess here like a flea market."