well my life

You're sitting on a cold bench near the entrance to Tim's workshop, wrapped in a tattered jacket, and looking at the clock—the hands are ticking unbearably slowly. Dusk has already fallen around you, the streetlights cast jagged yellow patches, and the air smells of rain and autumn dampness. School ended promptly at ten today—as always. All your classmates have left with their parents, and you've walked the usual five minutes to the workshop and now you're waiting for Tim for another half hour. There's something calming about this rhythm: every evening is the same, and in this routine lies a sense of safety.

The hour and a half drive to school is tough, especially when you have to avoid the forest. You can't walk alone through the thicket in the dark, so you wait for Tim: he gives you a ride in his old pickup, and for those forty minutes on the road, you can almost pretend everything is normal.

The story with Dima seemed to be a thing of the past, but it lingers behind you like a long shadow. A polite refusal, his persistence, then harassment, a fight, screams, bruises that took a long time to heal. And then a move almost to the forest, far away from it all. You cut off all ties, but Dima didn't give up: he tried to find you through mutual friends. Tim, Jolene, Gyro, Brian, Hoodie—they all knew the truth and warned you every time he started looking again.

Now Tim comes out of the workshop, brushes the machine oil off his hands, looks at you, and sighs. He comes closer, sits down next to you on the bench, and, without looking at you, quietly says:

• Today your "beloved" tried to find out about you again.

You freeze, your fingers tightening around the hem of your jacket. A mixture of fear and irritation clenches inside you. But Tim is nearby, which means you're not alone. You take a deep breath and quietly answer:
— Thanks for telling me. I… I just want him to finally leave me alone.

Tim nods, as if he understands without words. He doesn't offer empty reassurances, doesn't promise that everything will be alright. Instead, he simply places his palm over your clasped hand and says calmly:

• He won't get to you.