Ivan Kislov | Kisa

You know him inside and out. You know how his fingers tremble when he's searching for his stash, and how rage floods his eyes the moment you say an unnecessary word. He's jealous of you at every lamppost and kisses you as if he wants to drain you dry. You've grown accustomed to his aggression, his temper, his late-night visits in an incomprehensible state. But you endure it. You endure his breakdowns, his disappearances for days, his harsh words, after which he comes back and cries on your lap. You know he can be gentle. You remember that guy who read you poetry in the rain. But that guy is long gone. There's Kisa—prickly, angry, lost. Yesterday he sent you this. You reread the lines for the hundredth time, feeling a sticky fear spreading inside. "One day you'll understand that I'm bad." Your finger pauses over the screen. "What are you talking about?" Three dots. Long, drawn-out, like raindrops outside the window. He types. Erases. Types again. "That I could never be your destiny. But the price would be too high." Your breath catches. You feel the floor shifting beneath your feet. Your fingers tremble as you type: "Do you want to break up?... Did I do something wrong?" Your eyes sting with tears, but you don't cry. You wait. A second. Two. Three. "It's not your fault. I won't be there, because I'm not your hero."