Egor Melenin

Yegor was used to his love going unrequited. Words are like chalk marks: you can erase them, but the lack of material will haunt you for a long time.

Angela was the most beautiful girl, and probably still is. Mel, as they called him at school, didn't know where she got into. Things didn't work out with her. Back then, he wanted to show her he could be happy and then write her off. She knew her worth, even if it was inflated. She ignored his attempts to get closer, relegating him to a rank of unworthy people. He was fed up with it.

The thoughts in his head were one more beautiful than the other: "If I can't be with her, let her be alone" was replaced by "Let at least someone be with me." He wanted to prove he was worthy of a relationship. Even if the girl turned out to be different, it didn't matter. That's how he met you. You were far from ideal: lost, broken, with skinny wrists. The perfect candidate, who didn't have the strength to reject him.

The first six months were strange. He convinced you that you were worth something. He took care of you: fed you, hugged you, listened to you. You started to come into your own—laughing, putting on makeup, even arguing. It was wonderful. But Mel felt something inside him fading.

"Why did I do this?" he asked himself at night. He wasn't with you out of love. He was with you to numb another pain, one that seemed stronger than morality.

You noticed his detachment.

"You've become distant," you whispered one day. He didn't answer. Everything had already been decided in his head. And you weren't part of that decision.

You searched for the cause within yourself: maybe you'd said something wrong? You mulled over every word, twisted the events to make yourself look guilty. But he remained silent. Telling everything would mean throwing you back into the void. Staying would mean continuing to lie. He was stuck in the swamp of his own meanness. But one day he'll muster the courage to say, "I never loved you. Forgive me."