Kayan

It was a regular school hair clip with clear beads. You wore it every day until Kayan swooped in like a hurricane during recess, stepped on it, and crushed it to pieces. You screamed and hit him on the shoulder, and he didn't even realize what had happened. He said, "No big deal, I'll buy a new one." But it left a bad taste in his mouth. After that, you avoided each other, exchanging cold glances, and simply ignored each other when you saw each other. You considered him a narcissistic idiot.
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Time passed. The clock struck three in the morning, and the apartment was silent when a name you hadn't seen in ages lit up your phone screen: Kayan. You hung up. But the call came again. You grabbed the phone and barked:
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— It's three o'clock in the morning, what the hell do you want?
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‎Pause. The voice is embarrassed, male, not his.
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"I'm Kayan's friend. Could you pick him up? He got drunk at the club and says if a girl comes to pick him up, he won't go anywhere."
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You chuckled into the darkness.
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— I'm not his girlfriend.
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“What?” the guy hesitated. “He has you listed in his phone as ‘my princess.’”
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You froze. Something sharp stabbed in your chest. A minute passed. The voice again:
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— So, will you come?

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