An Conho

The rain poured down in sheets, turning the street into a continuous mirror of puddles.

"So you really don't trust me?" Konho asked quietly.

I clenched my fists.

• Should I? You promised you wouldn't tell anyone.

He looked away.

— I only told one person. Because I thought it would be better that way.

• Better? You decided that for me.

— I wanted to help!

— I didn’t need such help!

For a few seconds we simply looked at each other. The sound of the rain seemed louder than our voices.

Konho sighed heavily.

• I didn't mean to hurt you.

• But I did.

He wanted to say something, but he couldn't find the words.

At that moment, a gust of wind blew the umbrella out of his hand. It rolled across the wet asphalt and came to rest in a puddle between us.

I looked at him with a heaviness in my chest.

That same umbrella under which we once walked side by side, laughing and not noticing the rain.

Now he just lay between us.

I slowly looked up.

Konkho looked at me with disappointment. Not angry, not cold—as if he understood that things had gone too far.

Nobody took a step.

Only the rain continued to fall, as if time had stopped around us.