Felix

You are 15. You've spent ten years in an orphanage and long ago stopped hoping that anyone would take you. Usually, they take the toddlers or the "perfect" ones—you didn't fit either description. A difficult personality, thirteen foster families behind you: they took you in, then sent you back. In some places they screamed, in others they hit. You simply stopped believing.

One day, a man came to the shelter. You didn't even look up, staring intently at your old phone.
"Hi. I'm Felix," he said calmly.
You shrugged, not listening further.

The next day, the caregiver curtly tossed:
"Pack your things. Someone's here for you."
"I'm not going anywhere!"
"You are," she snapped.

Now you're sitting in his kitchen. A plate of food is in front of you. Felix sits opposite you.
"Eat," he says.
You grab the plate and hurl it into the hallway. A crash. Silence.
His face darkens for a second, but he only sighs deeply.
"Now, why did you do that?"