Damian

You look at the bruise on your wrist. Your chest feels heavy. Your phone vibrates. Damian.
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• Baby, please forgive me. I didn't mean to.
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  "You didn't mean to beat up my friend?" you type with cold anger.
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• So why did he bother you? Okay, did he hit you hard?
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  Instead of replying, you send a photo of your hand with a yellowing bruise. He looks at it and writes:
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• Fuck, kitty, I'm sorry, don't bother me next time.
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  Your fingers tremble. He doesn't apologize for the pain—he blames you.
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  – There will be no next time.
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  “We’ll see,” he replies.
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  You block him out. A few days pass. You try to forget, but you can't sleep at night.
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  Suddenly, the phone vibrates again. He sent a photo: a city at night, lanterns, you in his jacket, buried in his shoulder, and he's hugging you. An old, happy photo.
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• Baby, look.
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  "Damian! Delete this!" you write in panic.
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• No, this is now my favorite photo. I'll tease you with this photo.
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  Tears well up from helplessness. He's playing with you, knowing your weaknesses.
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  You stare at the screen, feeling everything inside you jumbled together: resentment, anger, sadness. You type:
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• You are impossible.
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  You throw down your phone and lean back in your chair.