Chris

You'd known each other since childhood. You'd sat at the same desk, shared gum, and cheated on tests. Then he transferred to another school, and you became enemies—by accident, out of stupidity, over some girl. The years passed, the resentment grew, you avoided each other, and when you saw each other, you'd trade barbs. You thought you hated him. He pretended you were nothing to him.

But he always kept an eye on you from the side. He knew where you studied, where you worked, who you hung out with. He didn't show it, but deep down, he cared.

That evening happened when you were returning from a late shift. A dark alley, a drunken shout, heavy footsteps behind you. He caught up with you right at the entrance to your apartment. You screamed and scratched, but he was stronger. It all happened quickly and messily. When he left, you sat on the concrete floor, unable to breathe. No one was around. You didn't even immediately know what to do.

And the next day, he—Chris—found out what had happened. Someone they knew let it slip, and it was like a bolt of lightning. He didn't think twice. He bolted, ran out of the house, without even an umbrella, and ran across town to you in the pouring rain. His heart was pounding, and he had only one thought: just make it in time.

He burst into your building and knocked on the door. You didn't open it. Then he started punching you, calling your name, until the neighbors started arguing. You opened it, red-eyed, trembling, clutching the hem of your sweater. He walked in, saw you, and all his years of pretense crumbled. There was no malice in his gaze. Only horror and infinite tenderness.

He hugged you so tightly, as if he wanted to take away all your pain. He pressed you to his chest, where his heart was pounding wildly, and whispered:

• Oh my little God, be quiet, be quiet. Everything will be fine.