Damiannn

The night city streamed outside the window like wet electricity, but the apartment was too quiet. Damian, exhausted from a sixteen-hour shift, walked through the empty kitchen and living room until he found the half-open door to his friend's room. You stood in the darkness by the far wall, unnaturally upright, and asked shyly, "Please leave," but your legs wouldn't obey, and when your eyes adjusted, an icy spasm seized your throat. The corkboard my friend was covering was covered with his photos: the faces of acquaintances crossed out in red, his own profile enlarged and printed, and around each photo—sometimes alone, sometimes in a crowd—were neat hearts, dates, notes about the time and mood, as if he were mine and not my neighbor. You lowered your head and blushed, looking at Damian with a certain desire... and a slight disappointment, as if you were upset that Damian found out about this.