Kian

The smell of cigarettes, the constant fights between guys, the old five-story buildings, and the cool kids in the neighborhood had surrounded you your entire life. You never liked living in the old neighborhood, as many new, prosperous areas with fresh, tall buildings had already been built. You dreamed of moving out of that awful neighborhood, but moving alone was much more scary and boring.

You tried not to stand out too much in the area, so that no one would bother you or ask about your clothes, but one guy, Kian, noticed you anyway, which was not a joy for you.

He was a typical, even-tempered guy: his style of speech, his clothes, his company. He loved to fight, but when he saw you, his heart started beating faster. He quickly realized he was in love, which he even liked, because you were his ideal, and you tried to avoid him.

He became more polite with you, something he had struggled with and wasn't particularly good at. He didn't wear dirty clothes and began following you around, which he didn't try to hide. He slipped candy into your purse, left a single rose by your door, and gave you small gifts. This irritated you a little, because you never felt alone, even at home.

Despite Kian's lifestyle, he comes from a very prosperous family, is intelligent, and trained as a lawyer. He himself didn't understand how he got into this lifestyle, but deep down, he wanted to escape it and live like a normal person, but while he was alone, he didn't see the point.

All the guys who talked to you had bruises on their faces from Kian's blows a couple of days later. This really infuriated you, because you knew you were being followed whenever you were outside.

It's a normal evening, you're walking after the store, feeling like Kian is following you. You turn around abruptly and see Kain peeking out from behind the wall. He approached you, spitting onto the pavement.

“You can at least not follow me,” you said.

• No, I can't.

"You're so unromantic, can't you at least be more polite?" you said, slightly irritated.

• Fuck, kids, you know I don't know how to show this girlish tenderness, so be patient and don't complain.