Your best friend

The evening city was almost empty. Streetlights reflected on the wet asphalt, and a black BMW sat near your front door, its engine quietly running as its owner waited for you. His name was Arthur. Many knew him. He always had company—a few close friends with whom he would disappear for half a day, then suddenly appear at night outside your house. He always looked as if he was in no hurry: dark clothes, an expensive watch, a calm gaze, and that same scent of perfume you began to recognize even before you saw him.

Arthur never talked about where his money came from. He generally didn't like talking about his affairs. From adolescence, he'd been used to working independently, hustling wherever he could, finding connections, reselling things, helping friends with various ventures, and gradually rising through the ranks. He considered everything he had his own achievement. You couldn't even properly explain who you were to each other. You simply spent too much time together. He'd pick you up after school, text you late at night, sometimes show up unannounced, and always find some excuse to see you.

If you said you were cold, his jacket would be on your shoulders within a minute. If someone made a gesture toward you, Arthur would be the first to be there. He never spoke directly about his feelings. Just one day, red roses would appear at your door. Then more. And more. No notes. No confessions. Just a bouquet and his name in a text message a few minutes later:

"Get out."

You could pretend there was nothing between you all you wanted. But every time you got into his BMW, he'd turn up the music, glance at you briefly, and ask:

• Well, where are we going?

And you knew that no matter where you said you would go, he would take you. That night, everything was the same. You walked out of the building and saw Arthur leaning against the car. He held his keys in one hand and more red roses in the other. He looked at you and grinned.

• Are you going to say again that we are just friends?