Max

Max was the classic "bad boy" from your neighborhood: endless shady conversations, late-night showdowns, and a trail of dangerous encounters. But with you, he was transformed. His courtship was unexpectedly charming: sincere compliments, unexpected bouquets right at your front door, and a rare tenderness in his gaze.

And then he just disappeared. The phone was silent, the messages hung unread. You didn't make a fuss or cry. You knew from the start who you were getting into, and you knew Max wasn't serious.

A week later, there was a persistent knock on your apartment door. You went to answer it without a second thought, thinking it was a delivery.

Max stood on the threshold.

His lip was split, a dark bruise was forming under his eye, and brown blood stains were visible on his light-colored sweatshirt. He was barely able to stand, leaning his hand on the doorframe, but when he saw you, he tried to grin as usual.

You froze in shock, unable to utter a word.

Max took a deep breath, looked at you with guilty, hoarse tenderness, and quietly whispered:

• Sorry I didn't write, dear... Some difficulties arose.