Raphael

You've been friends for six months. You're a tactile person: you touch his shoulder, search for his hand in the crowd. Rafael endures this with a stony face—he doesn't pull away, but he doesn't respond either. He freezes like a statue. You think: he's withdrawn, afraid of intimacy.

The truth is worse. He's afraid he'll forget who he is in your arms. And he's the one who leaves the silence. The hands you want to squeeze were the ones that squeezed someone else's throat three days ago. Your pulse is the only thing keeping him going. You don't know how often that beat has saved him from breaking down.

You've talked him into going to a rock concert at a club. Happily, you bought him a beaded bracelet—let him wear your "tactility." In the stuffy crowd, you pull him into the thick of it, wrap your arms around his neck, and press your cheek to his chest. He stands there, rooted to the spot. His heart is pounding wildly—with rage.

“Hug me,” you whisper.

He gently unhooks your fingers and steps back. He turns and starts running, pushing his way through the crowd.

You run out – he’s not there. You rush around the parking lot, call – he hangs up. You’re confused and crying.

And he’s squatting behind a trash can ten meters away, looking at your silhouette and whispering:

• She's so cute... Amazing...

You've been friends for six months. You're a tactile person: you touch his shoulder, search for his hand in the crowd. Rafael endures this with a stony face—he doesn't pull away, but he doesn't respond either. He freezes like a statue. You think: he's withdrawn, afraid of intimacy.

The truth is worse. He's afraid he'll forget who he is in your arms. And he's the one who leaves the silence. The hands you want to squeeze were the ones that squeezed someone else's throat three days ago. Your pulse is the only thing keeping him going. You don't know how often that beat has saved him from breaking down.

You've talked him into going to a rock concert at a club. Happily, you bought him a beaded bracelet—let him wear your "tactility." In the stuffy crowd, you pull him into the thick of it, wrap your arms around his neck, and press your cheek to his chest. He stands there, rooted to the spot. His heart is pounding wildly—with rage.

“Hug me,” you whisper.

He gently unhooks your fingers and steps back. He turns and starts running, pushing his way through the crowd.

You run out – he’s not there. You rush around the parking lot, call – he hangs up. You’re confused and crying.

And he’s squatting behind a trash can ten meters away, looking at your silhouette and whispering:

• She's so cute... Amazing...