She was just another insignificant person, buying vegetables at the grocery store—just another meaningless being, living another day, hoping for a change that never seemed to come.

Her hair was pulled up in an uncombed ponytail, and she wore a black tracksuit and old white sneakers — ones that had almost turned brown from frequent use. She tended to wear the same outfits simply because they were comfortable. It was another boring day until the unexpected happened: The salesman was giving her back the change when, out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a silhouette passing by. It was a feeling akin to intuition. 

The silhouette was about her height, only a few inches taller. She did not hesitate to turn, curious to see what this person looked like; they had golden, curly hair almost reaching their shoulders. 

She couldn't distinguish their gender because their back was turned to her. Her eyebrows furrowed in curiosity as she stood still while the salesman muttered indistinct words. Meanwhile, the figure walked so fast that she almost lost sight of them. She shook herself out of the trance, quickly slipped the change handed to her by the salesman into her pocket, and began walking behind the mysterious figure. 

From behind, the outline of the figure looked slim and slender. They were tall with bony arms. Their hands were tucked into the pockets of a skinny black leather jacket. Their posture suggested uncertainty; their shoulders were pulled back, but their head, covered with a black hat, was held low. They walked with a slight bend in their back. She quietly trailed behind them as they made a brisk stop to wait for the streetlight to turn green. 

She found herself standing inches behind them, absent-mindedly staring at the long, swanlike neck. She noticed strands of black hair peeking out from beneath the blond curly locks that were split in two.

She felt as if lightning had struck her when she realized this person was wearing a wig. The sound of cars startled her out of her thoughts, and she felt even more determined to follow this person, who, inexplicably, felt familiar.

People started crossing the street, and her curiosity intensified. She silently prayed that she wouldn't be noticed. The voice inside her chest was screaming to her that it was him — the same 25-year-old boy that the police had been searching for over the last 15 days. He was right in front of her. 

She wondered if this was a sign from the universe and if her silent prayer was being answered. She would never be able to explain or rationalize how intense her preoccupation with this boy was. She couldn't understand the obsession she had with him. She found his face haunting her dreams. She wound up fixating on him and thinking about him for days.

The very first time she saw him was while browsing through a newspaper in a café on the side of the road on a foggy afternoon. She was barely paying attention to the headlines when his striking photograph caught her eye. The headline above the photograph read: "Suspect in Recent School Shooting." He was identified as the perpetrator of a school shooting that resulted in the death of three teenagers and the injury of fourteen.

Yet, this was not truly the first time she had seen him. Her memory traced back to a night a year ago at a dark art exhibition, where she had first encountered him. He was the same boy she had met that night. His presence at the event had been arresting, his demeanor suffused with an enigmatic allure that lingered in her thoughts long after their brief interaction. 

How could she forget such a perfect and complete face? He instantly captivated her that day, and now he was the subject of all conversations and on the front page of every newspaper. It almost felt as if the universe kept reintroducing him into her life.

The reason behind the shooting was yet to be known. She couldn't deny the guilt she felt whenever she remembered that the moment she saw that article, she was so mesmerized by his countenance that she paid no attention to what the title was reading. 

She wondered why they had chosen that specific photograph of him for the article — a photograph that highlighted his curly dark hair, his untrimmed beard, his pitch-black eyes that seemed lifeless, and his pale white skin. His lips were slightly curved into a devious frown that inexplicably gave him an air of irresistible allure. She felt guilty. She felt guilty for the victims, their families, and their friends. She was unaccountably, immediately, and undeniably attracted to a criminal.

After crossing the street, he proceeded towards an empty road. His head remained low as if he were avoiding invisible accusing gazes. However, no one was looking at him; the rest of the streets were busy and overcrowded, with everyone absorbed in their activities. 

The deserted street he kept heading to narrowed to an even more deserted lane. She was now few steps away from him when he abruptly stopped. He remained motionless in the dark alley – hands clenched inside the pockets of his jacket. That was the moment she heard her heart hammer loudly in her chest — he knew he was being followed.

Even the sound of a cat's footsteps could be heard on the deserted street.

The tension in the air increased as he stood there. The reflection of his bent back appeared large on the wall, casting a silhouette, nearly terrifying. The distorted shape of his large shoulders exaggerated the tension of his immobile posture — until he abruptly started running again. 

She chased after him so fast, yet it was almost impossible for her to match his pace. She stumbled twice, nearly losing sight of him. Then the sound of his thin footsteps echoed through the obscure alley once more, reminding her of the possibility of never seeing him again.

She would live to regret it.

She took a long, ragged breath and a primitive impulse took control. Following him, she rushed as fast as she could and hurled the bag of veggies she had purchased earlier into the closest trash can, making a loud noise as the lid flew off. Blind determination and adrenaline fueled every step she made. There was a burning sensation overcoming her feet and an agonizing ache taking over her chest – she ignored it and pushed with every muscle in her body.

Her only focus was the silhouette, growing smaller with every passing second as he stepped farther away. With each moment, the distance between them increased, sending a loud pounding through her ears and pumping blood to an organ — a sort of bomb — on the verge of detonating and ripping open her rib cage.

She noticed that he abruptly turned to the left.

She fastened her pace, and he disappeared when she followed his trail.

She cursed, straining to hear her ragged breathing; she felt a thick sense of suffocation that prevented her from taking a breath. She slowly reduced her pace and stopped, grabbing her knees in an attempt to balance her weight. She closed her eyes for a moment and pictured his face — that was the strength she needed to press on and erase any possibility of surrender.

She resumed running again, but to no avail. He seemed to be completely engulfed by the earth as though it had opened its maw.

She glanced quickly down the street's right and left lanes, but he was nowhere to be found.
She was torn between sadness and fury — and it annoyed her. A sense of a panic attack began to surface as a storm of emotions swept through her entire being. She grounded herself, controlling her breathing, which returned to normal after a few minutes.
The girl decided to go home.

With her back on the mattress, she laid in bed and stared at a little gap in the ceiling. Only one matter occupied her: How would she find him again? It was pure luck that she had crossed paths with him at the grocery store. She laughed at her foolishness, thinking she could see him before the police did. Then, an idea popped into her head: She decided to go back to the grocery store as soon as dawn broke and gather information, if possible. She would seek assistance from the salesman and ask if he had seen him before. If, by any chance, he frequented the same store more than once, he must be staying nearby. 

The town was approximately five hours away from the site of the school shooting, and she figured he would be hiding there for a while. She would look for any clues she could get about him. She had decided on a strategy for the following day and hoped that it would work out.

She was reminded once more that she was putting her life in danger when she thought back on what she had done. She was shocked that she wasn't afraid; she wasn't even thinking about the threats that lay ahead or her resolve to destroy herself.

K. was prepared for all the consequences. And with that last thought, she rolled to her side and succumbed to sleep.

Her eyes fluttered open without the alarm, and the clock on her night table indicated it was 6:45. It was still early to go to the store. She started getting ready. 

She had never felt this energetic in the morning before: she jumped out of bed and went to wash her face and brush her teeth in the bathroom. She had no appetite, so she made herself a French press coffee. After opening the window to let the fresh air in, she stood there gazing at the still —empty street, sipping her coffee. In light of all the excitement, she didn't finish the coffee and returned to her bedroom to put on her clothes.

When the hour struck 7:30, she grabbed her apartment keys and headed out. The day before was the first time she went to that grocery store; although it was far from her place, she opted to procure her vegetables there. 

Having walked for over 30 minutes, she arrived at the shop. She silently prayed, asking God to listen before her feet crossed the door entrance. She saw a salesman standing behind the counter, towards whom she hastened. She was surprised to see an older man — he seemed to be in his seventies, if not eighties — standing before her. The one she had seen the day before was a middle — aged man. She approached him and, after clearing her throat, began to speak.

"Good morning, sir."

"Good morning, young lady," he replied with a smile. "Do you need any help?"

"Yes. I came here yesterday and saw a man — one of your customers — and I'm looking for him. Do you recall seeing him here before?" she said, her eyes shifting between the old man and the groceries surrounding them. She avoided raising her hand to her mouth, despite the urge to bite her nails. "He's an old acquaintance, and I lost his contact details. I saw him here yesterday but didn't get the chance to speak with him," she added.

The older man studied her face as if searching for signs of deceit. He did not immediately respond, so she continued.

"He's tall, slender, and has blond hair? He was wearing a black jacket and hat. Your colleague might have seen him, as I don't recall seeing you here yesterday."

By this point, she could no longer control her emotions. Her leg gave way to shivers, and she rested her hand on the counter for support. After a brief pause and what appeared to be an ironic smile, the old man finally replied, "Listen, young lady_"

She swallowed nervously.

"This man must be quite attractive," he said. "For you to come ask about him this early morning."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I've lived long enough to recognize when someone has a crush on another person."

She felt a twinge of intimidation, and her cheeks flushed. Sensing her discomfort, the old man chuckled warmly before adding, "But don't worry, dear. Even if I didn't see him myself yesterday, I might still know who you're talking about."

Her eyes widened. 

"Really?" she asked, her excitement barely contained.

"Yes," he answered. 

"This is a small neighborhood. Despite my old age, I still possess a memory as sharp as a knife's edge, and I remember most of the people who come to my shop."

He slowly leaned over the counter; he appeared as if he was about to share his biggest secret. "A man matching your description has come by here a few times," he began. "I couldn't help but notice he wore the same clothes each time he visited. 

He seemed suspicious initially, but after a brief conversation, I found him to be a genuinely sweet young man. He mentioned that he temporarily resided in the Adams Street building, two blocks from here. It's a remote area with just one old building. If you're familiar with the area, you must know which street I'm referring to."

"Yes, I know which one you're talking about. I can't thank you enough."

The older man let out an amused but soft laugh. "You're welcome, dear. Good luck with your search."

"Thank you again."

She made her way out of the store, nearly stumbling on the threshold. Once outside, she headed toward the area the older man had described before stopping midway. It was too early in the morning; she doubted she would catch any sign of him. He likely maintained a low profile, so returning in the evening or at night would probably be wiser. She pressed her lips together and clenched her fists tightly, driven by a burning desire to find him. 

With each passing second, her patience wore thin. With reluctance, she turned around and went back to her apartment.

The night was cold; ropes of rain poured down, and she was not wearing clothes warm enough to help her endure the freezing weather. It had been more than an hour that she had been standing in the corner of the dark street's alley adjacent to the building that she had spotted him disappearing into earlier. 

The building was an old one, and it seemed neglected; the brickwork was crumbling and the façade paint was fading. Very few people must have resided in it — if any at all. There were cracks in some of the street windows, and none of the rooms were lit. Even if there were residents in there, they were likely homeless, seeking refuge, or struggling with addiction. 

How long had he been staying there? And how could he remain in this old establishment without anyone recognizing him? K. thought with a shiver. The old man had mentioned earlier, the population in the area was tiny, mostly elderly residents so that must have been why he had chosen this place. He wanted to hide and stay off the police's radar.

She kept gazing, gazing, and waiting for a sign. Her feet were already numb, and she kept rubbing the length of her arms, hoping to stimulate her blood circulation and desperately seeking to dissolve the icy chill gripping her bones. 

She stared at the opposite apartment window, a lingering stare capable of penetrating the glass. She felt the night ahead would be long and sleepless if he didn't show a sign of life inside the building. She was intent on keeping her promise to herself; she wouldn't move from her spot until she was sure he was in there. 

She sighed as the feeling of dozing off crept into her. She hadn't slept well the previous night and spent the whole day obsessing over this moment. She leaned against the concrete wall, repulsed by the stinky smell of recycling bins nearby. She was fixated on one goal tonight: to find out which room he was staying in, go there, and talk to him.

All of this sounded so easy — if not demented — but she knew she needed more courage to execute her plan. Perhaps it would be better if she went there, knocked on all doors, and ended it. She wondered if anyone had seen him there before her. She didn't think so because they would have turned him in if that had been the case. 

How had no one recognized him when his face had been plastered across all TVs and newspapers? Maybe the news of his search hadn't reached this part of the country. After all, he was so far from where it had happened. 

His face... She felt a wave of shivers spreading all over her body whenever she remembered that face — his thin but plump lips, his perfectly sculpted cheekbones. He bore an air of masculine and feminine qualities; perhaps this was why no one had recognized him wearing that blond wig.

 She needed to exit her train of thought and actually do something. What would she say even if she managed to get there and meet him? What if he was dangerous? And what sick reason lay behind her coming and presenting herself to him? She felt like she had lost all sense of rationality and was only being driven by attraction and perhaps lust. 

She was unsure. To her, there had always been a delicious flavor to taking risks — forbidden fruit was sweet.

She refused to let him slip away from her again, not this time. She stepped down the wet threshold when, finally, a dim light illuminated one of the rooms. She froze on the spot and blinked twice to dispel any probable hallucinations. Then, she swallowed and leaned forward for a better view. 

And there he was, his slender silhouette walking slowly towards a tiny sink. What she had previously mistook for a room turned out to be a narrow bathroom. She could discern the outline of a sink, a mirror above it, and a showerhead tucked into the corner. 

It must have been warm inside because he was wearing no shirt, and she couldn't help but notice his sculpted and toned abdominals despite his slim physique. She must have been indulging in fantasies, standing far away yet still able to make out the outline of his body.

She kept staring at his physique with unblinking eyes; she felt like she was in a state of shock because she hadn't expected to see him with so little clothing so soon. She let out a sigh of exasperation and continued watching him. 

He had a folded towel hanging on his right shoulder, and she saw him turning the faucet knob, letting the water run down in a continuous stream before cupping his hands together and splashing water onto his face. He dried his face and returned to where he had come from, turning the light switch off behind him. 

The electricity going off shook her out of her reverie, and she started walking, her pace quickening towards the building. Now that she knew where he was hiding, nothing prevented her from heading there. Her actions were irresponsible and reckless, and despite that, it didn't stop her from continuing this nonsense. The likelihood of this insanity working out was almost non — existent, yet she kept going towards the building against the odds.

As she climbed the dark stairs, she tried to avoid making any sound; only the deafening noise of her heart thumping inside her chest was audible. She was unsure whether it was nervousness or fear. She was walking into a labyrinth of many unanswered questions, and the one answer she sought lay behind the door of that apartment.

She reached the first floor, paused momentarily to catch her breath, reconsidered her decision, and slowly approached his door. She did not even know what she was going to say to him. She wasn't sure he would open the door for her. How foolish was she, believing that a wanted man would open the door for a stranger in the dead of the night? 

She stood before the wooden door, sensing his presence on the other side. He was not making any noise; the atmosphere was as still as a summer river, yet she could feel him there. She raised her hand, ready to knock, but stopped herself. She would undoubtedly startle him; her hand was now trembling, hesitating, a few inches from the door. She had to do this; the damage was done, and she was already there. There was no way to retreat. 

She lowered her hand slowly, curling it into a fist at her side. Her heart continued to beat rapidly, fueling her anxiety. 

"J._"

She couldn't believe she had just spelled his name. Her voice had been barely audible, and she was more nervous about whether he had heard her. The longer she delayed, the more it stressed her out. With an effort, she gathered her strength, and as she took a deep breath and readied herself to knock, the door opened a little crack, sending a tornado of shivers down her spine.

 Before she could speak, their eyes met in silence, and for the first time, they held each other's gaze. A flash of the moment she met him at the art exhibition flooded her memory. The few times she had seen him — in the art exhibition and the newspaper article — he had always worn black, yet now he was standing right before her in his grey joggers and a white tank top. 

He must have put it on when he heard the door. His countenance betrayed sleepiness and tiredness, but it seemed to her like he had been expecting someone, or he wouldn't have opened the door to a stranger in the middle of the night. 

She lost her voice. She sensed that she had also lost her breath and waited for a reaction on his part, but none came. She couldn't decipher his facial expression. Her pulse quickened as he stood frozen in place, and it appeared to her that he could hear her heartbeats echoing in the stillness of the almost dark corridor. When her silence lasted for a while, he leaned against the door frame. 

"Can I help you?" he asked, his tone carefully measured. She thought he was trying to maintain his calmness and mask any hint of suspicion.

"Hello," she began, rambling slightly to avoid misunderstanding. "I'm here to talk." 

The situation's tension pressed down on her, and she almost suffocated.

"You might not know me, but I was the one who followed you yesterday. My name is "K_," and I know the police are after you, but I'm not here to turn you in." She spelled the last sentence faster, afraid to increase his suspicions, and waited for his response.

He didn't reply.

He stood there like a statue.

She couldn't breathe.

Say something, she thought.

She opted to remain silent and avoid being the one breaking the deafening silence that followed. She left it up to him to steer the conversation forward. Their proximity tortured her, and if she was destined to end up in a trash bag that night or six feet underground somewhere, she didn't care. 

An intense desire for this man consumed her whole being. He possessed her so completely that she was willing to face whatever fate he chose for her. Could he see through her? Could he tell that it was with peaceful intentions that she was approaching him? 

He kept staring at her, but he didn't shut the door. 

"You're the girl from the dark art exhibition," he finally said. 

"You remember me?"

"How did you find me?" he added, not paying attention to her question. There was a flicker of evident unease crossing his face.

She wanted him to trust her.

She wanted him to believe her.

He needed to know she was sincere.

"How I found you doesn't matter," she asserted, fixating his gaze as her voice dropped almost to a whisper. There might have been other people in the building, and she didn't want to attract unnecessary attention. "I followed you because I believe you're in danger and know you. We've met before. You remember me. For how long do you think you'll be safe here? Listen, you would have noticed by now if I wanted to turn you in. You might find it hard to believe, but I want to help you." She raised her hands in a controlled gesture of non — aggression despite her racing heartbeats. 

Never before had she been besieged by such profound trepidation.

"Why would you do that for me?" he asked after a brief silence. He crossed his arms and remained leaning against the door frame.

"Because I believe in second chances. Because nobody deserves to live in fear; I know how it feels, and I don't want that happening to you," she said immediately without thinking her words ahead.

In the heavy silence that followed, he studied her face and didn't respond. He kept holding the door ajar, and she took a step forward, almost closing the distance between them; she felt the heat of his body radiating in the small space and was nearly desperate to know how warm his breath felt against her skin. He was standing mere inches in front of her. 

In a zombified motion, her eyes shifted to his bare neck, from the visible vein blinking with each pulse of his heart to the protruding Adam's apple. A primal desire woke within her, and suddenly, she was unable to blink or control her quivering lips. She contemplated his figure with wide — eyed wonder. She wanted to close the obstructive door behind them, to pull herself into his arms, to hold him tight, and to put an end to the torture. 

The intensity of this desire eluded any standard description. There was a magnitude in his eyes preventing her from looking away. She needed him to believe her. They were risking his exposure, standing in the corridor. He had to decide whether to trust her or not. She was pleading for him to choose the former.

The weight of his decision was palpable in the air. Then, calmly, he stepped back, gesturing for her to enter. She had no idea what would happen next but was taking her chances. 

Stepping into the dimly lit apartment ignited a glimmer of hope within her. Her eyes wandered the narrow space; some of the furniture was covered by dust sheets, an old and worn red rug lay on the floor, spider webs glistened in the soft glow of the lamplight, and the walls' faded wallpaper was peeling at the edges.

The air was heavy with the dusty scent, and the street window seemed closed for a long time, making the room's atmosphere stifling and nearly impossible to breathe. 

To her right, a kitchenette sat in the corner; there were no dishes, only pots of empty noodles, suggesting he hadn't had a proper meal for days. She turned her eyes back to him, and he gestured to the small table in the middle of the kitchenette with a large black shoulder bag. 

She spotted what seemed to be the unmistakable head of a rifle and took it as a sign that she would meet her fate if she attempted any false move. She was not afraid.

They took seats on opposite ends of the table.

At this moment, with him seated across from her, once more so close to her but not close enough, she knew her imagination was playing tricks on her again, but she loved how this felt. She could still sense the pulsing of her heart, but the rhythm was steadier now. 

Exhaustion overwhelmed her because of the long hours she had stood in the street and the lack of sleep, but she was willing to wait, sit down, and look at him until he could trust her.

She remained correctly seated while he lounged in the chair with effortless ease. She could tell he was studying her body language in silence. How his legs were parted, his left hand casually resting on the table, and the other elbow draped over the arm of the chair made her mind wander into the distance. 

Every time she tried to spell a word to break the heavy silence, she was prevented by his magnetic gaze. She prayed to God that her face would not betray the raging heatwave within her. The moment their eyes crossed paths, she felt almost electrified, like a lone tree on a hill struck by thunder. Once on the table, her hands moved down to her legs, slowly grabbing her joggers to ground herself and prevent this moment from consuming her.

"You shouldn't stay here for so long," she finally broke the silence.

"I will not," he replied casually and said nothing. He tilted his head slightly as if waiting for her to ask more questions. He commanded her reactions with every gesture and move, a master orchestrating his puppet. How he tilted his head provoked an insatiable craving within her, a hunger she didn't know could be defined. Yet she managed to remain calm. She shouldn't be distracted. What did he mean by "I will not"?

"Will you?" she asked.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, making a vague circular motion with his index finger. She assumed he was asking for her name, even though she had already introduced herself earlier.

"K.," she replied immediately. "I told you. I want to help you." 

From the look on his face, his patience seemed to grow thinner with each passing second. K. needed to control how this conversation went, or she wouldn't get anywhere with him.

 "Someone will eventually find out about you. You need my help. I can provide you with shelter and money, and I know people who can help if things get out of control. You can't do this on your own. You don't even have a TV or a phone, I bet, to keep up with the news. Do you think newspapers with your face on the front page won't reach this part of town? Do you think wearing a wig and sunglasses is enough for anyone not to notice you and turn you in? You would have been arrested if I meant any harm, but you can tell I am honest. You are safe, but only for now. This is why you could use my help. How long has it been since you had a proper meal? A proper shower? A proper night's sleep? I don't judge any of your actions. I would be the last person on earth who dares to. I don't care what you did. It might be hard for you to believe or trust me, but it's true. Time will prove me right."

She lost her concentration once more when he wore a smirk on his face. Then his lips shifted to a sarcastic smile, and the heatwave she had felt a short while ago took over her once more, transcending the boundaries of words. What was the meaning of this? Was he mocking her? Did this mean she had convinced him? She frowned, puzzled.

She was confused and helpless. His silence was torture. 

She was out of cards. 

She had exhausted all her words.

"I appreciate your concern," he finally said, and she had never been this anxious awaiting a response. "But I'll find my way out of this. I got it all under control." He gestured with his chin toward the bag of guns on the table as he said this.

"Thank you for your offer, but I must respectfully decline," he added, sensing her apparent disappointment. "You can walk out the door as you came in; I will not hurt you." There was a softness in his voice when he spoke those last words.

She could hear the final beat of her heart — a loud, painful thud against her chest. His response shut down the engine, pumping the blood to it, and it felt as if it must have stopped beating. Her doomed heart. 

She was destined to be hurt and miserable. 

She clenched her hands into fists, then released them, and in a single gesture, dug her nails into the fabric of her jogging pants. She hurt herself, but she didn't feel a twitch because nothing compared to the rage inside her. Her instinct, masquerading as her voice of reason, told her to relent.

She broke their seemingly eternal eye contact with an audible sigh and forced a smile.

"Okay. But if you ever change your mind or need help, I will write down my address, and you can come anytime, day or night," she said nervously, her eyes riveted between him and the small space serving as a living room, scanning it to see if she could spot a notebook and a pen. "Do you have a pen?"

"Yes. One moment," he responded before rising from his seat and turning his back to her. She was offered a view of his silhouette from behind, and she found herself unable to resist contemplating the attractive shape of his body: his broad shoulders tapered down to a slim waist. 

Her gaze followed his movements like a magnet. He stepped slowly toward a small cabinet in the living room, retrieved what seemed to be a phone, and walked back toward her. She watched him intently, captivated by the way his muscles flexed under his white tank top. She was breathless.

Her thoughts were then interrupted by a recollection of the moment she had presumed he had no phone — a foolish assumption, indeed. 

He didn't return to his seat. Instead, he stood before her and handed her the phone. She longed to reach out and feel the lines of his body, to feel the warmth of his skin against her fingertips. She raised her head, meeting his gaze as he looked down at her, a strand of his dark curly hair delicately falling across his eye. 

With a slow and deliberate gesture, she took the phone from his hand, brushed their fingers in a tantalizing exchange, and rose to her feet simultaneously. Standing opposite each other, their eyes met once more in a charged exchange, their beings intimately close. This chemistry was undeniable. Every corner of her body, every nerve, was burning, yearning with the essence of possibility for him.

Nevertheless, he ruined the moment by lowering his glance to the phone, waiting for her to type the address. She knew he was being careful. Trust took time, and if there was ever a moment she asked God to answer her prayer, it was then. 

She started typing her address after letting go of his hand; he had already accessed the notes application before handing her the phone. She mentioned every detail about her residence, even the color of the door. She added that she would leave a spare key under the doormat in case he came and she wasn't there. 

She doubted he would ever come. She was questioning her sanity at that moment. He must think she was out of her mind. Or perhaps he was only doing this to hasten her departure. The intimacy they had shared, momentary — or so she thought — was shattered by his phone vibrating in her hand. Before she could see the message's sender, he snatched the phone back from her hand and looked at her, eyes widened.

"You must go. Now." He grabbed her shoulders with both hands and — in a singular panicked motion — turned her toward the door. She found herself speechless, unable to reply or react. He hastily led her to the door, turned the knob, and opened it. He looked at her one last time. "Don't ever come back here."

When she didn't respond, he added, "Do you hear me?" She nodded without saying a word, sensing the urgency in his voice.

With a heavy heart, she stepped out into the corridor, watching him lower his eyes and close the door in her face. She resumed her steps toward the exit, the echoes of his words still lingering in her mind. "What was that all about?" she thought. "The sudden urge to kick her out of sight. Who had texted him? Why did he panic?"

The first light of dawn filtered its way through the entrance door. But just as K. was about to step outside, she came face to face with a vast man entering the building. His large frame filled the doorway, and his eyes shifted slightly toward her, sending shivers down her spine. His face was featureless and shadowy, and a morbid vibe from him urged her to look away. She turned to steal a glance in his direction and saw him climbing the stairs, taking four steps at a time. "Where was he going this early morning?" she wondered.

She tucked her hands in the pockets of her hoodie and walked back home.

She spent another Saturday night lying on her couch, absentmindedly watching TV. She grew increasingly tired of this routine, never imagining she would want to return to work as much as she did now. She had devoted her life to graphic design, and though she loved her work, she had promised herself a holiday. Yet, her mind felt heavy, and it dragged her spirit down, leaving her unable to concentrate.

This void made it feel like her vacation lasted longer than a month; she was losing track of time. In addition, she hadn't done much since the last time she saw J. Most of her days were spent indoors; she didn't see daylight. 

She hadn't gone back — though part of her had considered the idea — because he had made it very clear he didn't want her back there. The scenario of their encounter constantly replayed in her head; she went over every detail and asked herself every question. She wished there was a switch to turn off this lament.

Often, she found herself walking to her door many times during the night upon hearing a knock, only to end up disappointed as it was yet another illusion projected by her imagination. A week had passed, and she had heard no news of him, which meant he hadn't been arrested — or not yet. 

As days passed, her angst became more overwhelming, and her insomnia worsened. At times, she wondered whether it had all been a dream and found herself slowly drowning back into depression. Nevertheless, she refused to resume taking the poison her doctor prescribed. She had stopped taking her medications a month ago because they were making her feel worse.

The thought of J. being dragged out of the apartment and arrested before she had the chance to reach him again or help him filled her eyes with tears. Each memory of their fleeting moments together felt like a magnified, painful stab in her chest. She questioned herself again — whether she had done enough. He would have accepted her help that night if she had been convincing enough. "What had stopped him?" she wondered.

The fact that her whole body was covered with a blanket didn't stop her from feeling cold, and the headaches lately had been irritating. She used the tips of her toes to peel back the blanket and let it fall to the floor; she wanted to feel cold. If the coldness could distract her from thinking about him, she welcomed it eagerly.

She wiped away the tears flooding her cheeks and stretched her body on the couch. She remained there for a while, staring into space, unable to shake him off. Soft raindrops started tapping on the glass roof of her penthouse. A few moments later, rain was pounding violently on the roof outside.

As the contour of his face appeared under her watery eyelids, she was once more reminded of his absence. The torment within her intensified, and she burst into tears. She was unaware of the time that had passed, trapped in that oblivious state of mind. 

Startled, she jumped off the sofa and ran to her room.

She dressed in haste and headed to his place. Oblivious to the rain soaking her frail body, she ran, hoping to arrive there before it was too late. While she had been dozing off earlier — she couldn't tell for how long — she remembered a fragment from their conversation. When she told him he shouldn't stay there long, he said he wasn't, which meant the probability of him not being there in that instant was high. 

She was a stranger who appeared at his hiding place uninvited, so he must have felt threatened and left. Or perhaps he had already been planning to go? The older man from the supermarket had also said J. was temporarily residing in that building. Why she hadn't noticed this sooner was perplexing.

Her rage escalated, and her vision blurred with both tears and the violent raindrops falling over her. She tripped and fell. With difficulty, she stood up again, panting, and resumed her course. The closer she got, the slower her steps became. 

The moment she caught sight of the building, she stood in the same spot she had been standing a week ago. Her hands trembled, and it wasn't just the cold weather's doing. There was a risk in her coming after he had told her not to, but if she hadn't, the chaos unfolding in her headspace would have consumed her, and she would have ended up injuring herself. Nevertheless, it wouldn't be the first time she did that.

No light was coming from the window, and she attempted to convince herself he was asleep. She entered the building and took the stairs to the first floor. A long breath — almost a whimper — escaped her as she headed to his door. 

Seeing the door slightly ajar sent vibrations through her body, and with only darkness leaking through the crack, she came face-to-face with the reality of his departure. She came to terms with the fact that she would never see him again.

Inviting herself to ensure the apartment was deserted would only amplify her despair; he was no longer there. However, she still pushed the door open — emptiness. A long thread of moonlight pierced through the window, casting a beam onto the living room floor. 

Her faith and reason collided as she walked, dripping with rainwater, to the table where they had sat, skimming her fingers across the dusty back of the chair. Next, she absentmindedly strolled around the apartment, not truly seeing anything. 

She wished he had left anything behind for her to mourn his desertion properly. She headed out and closed the door behind her without looking back.

The need for a hot bath was called upon as soon as she arrived home. While the steamy water filled the bathtub, she stood against the wash basin, hands clutching the wood board. 

K. stared in the mirror at the water running in the bathtub, and for a fraction of a second, she thought she saw his reflection staring back at her. She turned hurriedly to confirm his presence, but he faded away. 

The helpless woman hoped to sleep after her bath, but insomnia haunted her night, contrary to her expectations. She conjured up her companion from the fridge for the last few days — her bottle of red wine.

 She spent the rest of the night drinking to her melancholy until, finally, she surrendered to sleep once more.

The days had passed in a haze of books and solitude, the kind she both dreaded and clung to. Her fingers lingered on the edge of the page, reluctant to set the novel aside, though her heart had already begun to quicken with unease.

She was reading The Shining when the door knocked, shaking her with a start. She had started to feel restful again, and it had been two months since her last encounter with J. 

Her social life was almost non-existent. She worked on her designs occasionally for a change and seldom went out. She only went out to do the groceries. She abstained from returning to that apartment to avoid stirring up old emotions. 

The heavy and usual silence hung in the air as the clock struck seven in the evening. Her heartbeats began to quicken when the knock at the door was heard. It was a faint one, and she thought she was imagining. She wasn't expecting visitors, and nobody came unannounced — not at this hour. 

She resumed her reading when a firmer knock followed. She rose quickly from the sofa, placed the book on the side table, and went to open the door. She pressed her palms and her ear against the door, vainly attempting to discern the visitor's identity on the other side. Her thoughts scattered, and her heart beat faster. 

With a deep breath, she slowly turned the doorknob and opened the door.

She froze.

J. stood before her, barely recognizable. And not because of his disheveled blond wig and his wide-brimmed black hat. He was unrecognizable behind the deep blue mark swelling around his left eye. It seemed as if the flesh was struck with great force, causing the blood to accumulate. The eye itself was almost shut. Blood trickled from the corner of his quivering lower lip. Strands of his blond wig, now stained with blood, dripped down his skin. 

K. could hear his ragged breathing and was aghast to see him in such a state. His Nirvana black shirt was torn and stained with blood on the sides, suggesting he had received either stabs or blows on his chest. A wretched backpack hung around his trembling left shoulder, and he leaned heavily against the doorframe with his right arm as if the effort of standing there might break him.

K. gasped and suddenly swung the door wide open.

"J.," she howled.

"I... I need your help," he whispered, his voice caught between coughs as though each word required effort.

His knees eventually collapsed, and he swayed weakly. She stepped toward him instinctively before he could hit the ground and caught him. Despite her fragile frame, she grasped him.

For a moment, they stood there, her arms bracing his weight tightly, his body leaning heavily against hers. His ragged breathing burned against her ear.

"What happened, J.?" she whispered with a trembling voice.

He didn't respond. He remained leaned against her as though he lost all control over his body functions.

Reluctantly, she pulled away from him and steadied him as best as possible.

"Come inside," she said, gently guiding him inside.

She guided him to the sofa where she lay earlier and helped him sit down. He whimpered in a desperate attempt to stabilize himself. Hastily, K. grabbed a pillow and softly tucked it behind his back. She then lifted his feet and propped them on the sofa before quickly running back to close the door.

She made sure to lock the door with the key.

She positioned her hand on her heart to confirm it was still beating. She stood frozen by the door, looking at J., who was resting on her sofa. He silently gazed at her and, for a moment, closed his eyes as if blinking was taking all the energy he had left.

K. didn't spell a word; she steadily returned to him and knelt on the carpet beside him. She grasped a glass on the side table, filled it with water, and handed it to him. 

With his trembling hand and a melancholy smile, he reached for the glass, and before making an effort to drink, she supported his hand with hers, steadying it and helping him take a sip.

After he was done, she placed the glass on the side table and sat beside him. She was intimidated. She didn't wish to invade his space but couldn't bring herself away from him — not when he was finally there with her, closer than ever.

"Who did this to you?" she asked, hesitating for a moment before reaching out to remove his hat and wig, thinking they might be bothering him given all the wounds inflicted on him.

He swallowed and looked at her with unblinking, tired eyes. His stare flushed her face, confusing her about whether to ask her question again or remain silent.

He didn't respond.

She felt a shiver run down her spine when his silence accentuated the gravity of the situation. Despite the many questions scattering her mind, she realized it might be the wrong time to ask him. The man can barely breathe, and she is already suffocating him with questions. She heaved an audible sigh and bit her lip.

The way he kept regarding her made her feel anxious. His expression was unreadable, but she couldn't help but speak.

"Let me get the first aid kit," she muttered, standing up. "I need to treat your wounds."

He caught her hand before she could turn around.

"I will answer all your questions," he finally said. "Just when the time is right. But there is nothing you need to worry about."

She nodded, clutching his hand. His skin was cold against hers. She didn't want to let go of his grip whenever he touched her. Yet, with reluctance, she smiled at him, released his hand, and went to get the first aid kit from the kitchen. 

He watched her go and closed his eyes for a moment. He was too tired to blink, speak, or even sleep.

Once his multiple wounds were adequately treated, they sat in silence. A strange atmosphere filled the room. K. remained seated in her chair, occasionally throwing glances at J., who was also seated on the sofa with his arm wrapped up in a makeshift bandage. His eyes were fixed on the TV, but there was an unmistakable tension in his posture.

"I didn't want to get you involved, K.," he confessed. "I didn't know where to go, and I hesitated before coming here — not because I was unsure you'd help me, but because I didn't want you to get mixed up in my mess."

K.'s brows furrowed with worry, yet she maintained her posture despite her glistening eyes. She was torn between her concern for him and the relief that he had come to her for aid.

"I meant it when I said I wanted to help you," she retorted. "I'm here for you, J."

J. wasn't familiar with someone showing him care. For a moment, he couldn't say a word. He didn't want to tell K. what had happened. He didn't want to cause her harm, and he knew he was risking her safety by coming to her. But coming to her was his ultimate solution; strangely, he wanted to see her. 

His facial expressions didn't betray any signs of interest toward her, yet he felt it. She had intrigued him the last time she came to see him. The universe kept bringing them together — the art exhibition, the grocery store encounter, her showing up at his hiding place and offering to help him. There must have been a reason for these encounters.

He slightly straightened his back and nodded.

"I'll forever be grateful," he admitted. He looked at her for a long time, struggling to compose the words in his mouth before speaking what was occupying his mind.

"My... my only way to survive this is to leave," he paused. "I can't tell you everything now. I wish I could, but I can't."

K.'s anxiety overwhelmed her. His being hunted by the police was saddening enough, and now his life was at stake. The look in his eyes was enough to show her that he was scared. She pulled herself together, stood up from her chair, and sat beside him on the sofa.

"Who wants to hurt you?" she demanded, her voice sharper than she aimed.

"That's something I can't tell_"

"You can trust me," she interrupted. "J. I will do anything to get you out of this. Please tell me who wants to hurt you and why."

He stared at her. Her face tightened with concern, and he saw her chest rising and falling with irregular breathing.

"I'm sorry," she added. "I'm just... I don't want anything to happen to you."

"I know that. Believe me, I know. But I can't tell you now."

She didn't want to push him further. She nodded in agreement and managed a faint smile. "What did you need from me?"

"A ride," he murmured, his voice barely audible, but the revelation struck her like thunder. "I have arrangements to meet someone in two days. A coyote." He paused briefly before adding, "I'm leaving for Mexico."

His last sentence was a sharp knife in the heart. She frowned and mumbled words he couldn't make out.

His words had physically wounded her.

"What?" she eventually said, her voice breaking.

"Yes," he said, his tone matter-of-fact. "K., if I stay, I will die." He softly spelled the last part, his voice almost comforting.

The room seemed to close in on her, and she nearly suffocated. Though he was unused to intimacy, he could see his words' effect on her. He hesitated for a moment before reaching out to take her hand.

A tear ran down her cheek. She wiped it away and apologized.

"I need you to drive me to the Mexico—United States border," he said. "I need to be there by Wednesday. If we start driving tonight, we'll reach there by tomorrow morning. K., I know I might be asking too much, but you're the only one who can help me, and I'll never be able to repay you."

"This... is too much for me to process," K. cried. "If your life is at stake, I won't stop you."

She broke into tears, released his hand, and turned her back to him, apologizing.

"It's all right," he said softly. He reached to pat her on the back of her shoulder but stopped himself, unsure how to comfort her.

Inhaling deeply, K. steadied herself, wiped her tears, and turned back to face him. She gazed lengthily at his facial features, accepting the painful realization that this might be the last time she saw him.

"I'll drive you," she said firmly, forcing a smile. "But we can't leave tonight. You're hurt, and it's a nine-hour drive, I suppose. You need to recover, and then we can hit the road."

Despite the urge to get away and end this turmoil, J. nodded, his melancholy smile not leaving his face.

"I'll get you a blanket," she added, leaving.

As she went to the bedroom, she secretly glanced at him, seeing the back of his head, curly hair, and broad shoulders. 

Remembering the pain he was in and the fact that he was leaving for good after she had finally found him again triggered the agony inside her, and she burst into tears a second time. She covered her mouth with her hand and hurried to the bedroom.

She came back wearing a forced smile.

"Do you want to eat some_" she stopped, not finishing her sentence when she noticed he had drifted into a fitful sleep. 

Her gaze lingered on him; he looked like a child while sleeping, and the tension in his face softened, making him seem vulnerable. She wished she could accept her destiny, but it wasn't easy. She couldn't help but feel anger as if she were being punished for something she didn't understand. 

She leaned over to cover him with the blanket. He stirred but didn't wake up.

She returned to her place in the chair across from him and kept looking at him.

In a vain attempt to forget the events of the past few hours, she grabbed her book and sat on the balcony to continue reading.

The phone rang, interrupting her with a start.

She ran to the kitchen to pick it up before waking J. Hastily, snatching the phone from its base.

"Hello?" she murmured after a brief pause.

Uneven, shallow, and hoarse breathing came from the other end of the line, but nobody spoke.

"Hello?" K. repeated, raising her voice, thinking the person on the other end of the line hadn't heard her. With a shaky hand, she held the receiver against her ear, her eyes fixed on J. He was still so deeply asleep that he hadn't heard the loud phone ring nor K. speaking.

K. sighed, but a voice spoke before she could say another word.

"I promise I'll find you."

The abrupt click of the receiver hanging up left K. frozen.

She returned to the balcony, hoping to continue reading. Her feelings of worry for J. subsided when other ones took over: fear. Who was the person calling me at that time? What is the meaning of  "I'll find you"? She thought. Her mind wouldn't quiet. Even as she eventually dozed, her brain still questioned her.

By the time the first breeze of dawn swept through the balcony, K. was curled up in her chair, her book resting on her lap. She softly opened her eyes when she felt a presence before her. It was J. He stood in the doorway, watching her sleep and hesitant to wake her up. 

K. smiled, adjusted her posture, slid the bookmark inside the book and closed it.

"Are you okay?" K. said, throwing a glance at the clock in the living room. It indicated 5:18 a.m.

"You," J. whispered. "You fell asleep. It's cold out here."

K. could almost see through J. Despite having some rest, he looked hesitant, and perhaps anxious for having to drag her into chaos. His voice shook with intimidation, and his eyes looked big and glassy.

"And it's time," J. added after a brief pause, impatience lingering beneath his words.

K. nodded, standing up and clutching the book in her hand.

"Do you feel rested enough?" K. added. She knew how impatient he was to leave, to end it, but she also wanted to ensure he was healthy enough to travel.

"Yes, absolutely," he confirmed, shaking his head slightly and scratching the back of his neck. His eyes darted between her and the clock ominously ticking in the living room. Nonetheless, he kept smiling, gratitude softening his face.

K. sighed softly before taking a step toward him. She gently grabbed him by the arm and ushered him back toward the living room.

"First, I need to ensure your wounds are patched up," she ordered. "And that you're not bleeding anymore."

He shook his head and for the first time, she heard him giggle. It must have been her stubbornness and her unsuccessful attempts to delay him. 

She wanted to help him as much as to keep him with her. She also wished to forget the voice she heard the night before. She shuddered at the thought. She rarely received calls on the landline, and if anyone wanted to reach her, they had her mobile number.

K. led J. to the living room. They sat in silence on the couch, the sound of her apartment amplified by the refrigerator hum. K. was torn between telling J. about the phone call and avoiding it. She focused instead on cleaning his wounds which seemed to be in a worse state despite his insistence that he was fine. Caringly, she unwrapped the stained bandages around his side and replaced them with clean ones. She watched his chest rise and fall. He was breathing slowly, as if each breath required deliberate effort. Lying in the same position, he tilted his head to the right, his unblinking eyes staring at the ceiling.

K.'s eyes riveted toward him when he sat silent for a while. Her eyebrows creased in concern.

"J.?" she called, her heart skipping a beat.

He opened his eyes slowly and offered her a weak smile. "Don't worry, I'm just sleepy."

"Do you want—" she barely said when he interrupted her, kindly.

"K., I can't stay any longer."

J. reached out slightly and held her hand, his touch cold against her warm skin.

"Really," he concluded.

K. was certain he was in pain. The bandages she unwrapped from his body were stained with blood, and his face looked pale and exhausted. K. tried to regain her posture and contain the softening she felt from seeing him in that state. She cleared her throat and continued to patch him up. 

He silently let go of her hand and resumed his initial position on the couch.

By the time they were on the road, daylight had already broken. They stopped twice for petrol and snacks. J.'s appetite was almost nonexistent, yet he forced himself to eat for he knew he needed the energy. 

Despite K.'s burning desire to ask him questions, she refrained. She wanted to know who was after him, who had hurt him, and the reason behind his being this scared, but she knew he wasn't ready to be generous with details. 

Throughout the ride, the atmosphere was quiet except for the hum of the engine and Nirvana's CD playing on a loop. Occasionally, K. stole glances at J., and with each glance, she gripped the steering wheel tighter.

It was already dark, and the car's clock read 5:30 p.m. when J.'s coughing fit overtook him. His condition was worsening — he leaned his head out the window, and his coughs came in harsh bursts.

"J.," the girl howled, pressing hard on the brake pedal and pulling over.

They had reached an almost remote area, with a few buildings visible in the distance. K. violently pulled the handbrake and turned toward J. His hand was covering his mouth, and to her horror, she saw blood on his palm when he removed it.

"J., are you all right?" she asked, her voice breaking in concern.

She felt a surge of anger when she noticed his health had deteriorated so much that he couldn't even manage to reply to her. She was angry because she listened to him. She was blaming herself for letting him travel when he was unfit to even move from bed. 

She pursed her lips and her heart was thumping in her chest. She reached the dashboard to grab the tissue box and handed him one before placing her shivering hand on his forehead to check his temperature.

"My God, J.!" she exclaimed. "You're burning up!" With her shivering hand, she the engine and clumsily pulled back onto the road, the contact between the wheels of her 1980s Chevrolet Caprice and the asphalt caused a screeching sound.

She drove fast as the tension inside the vehicle was heavier with each push on the accelerator. She was hoping to get J. to a safe place where she could treat him. However, the road ahead seemed endless.

As the kilometers passed, the landscape surrounding them shifted to scattered and aging buildings. The road seemed endless, stretching beneath the starred sky and dim headlights.

 Eventually, K. pulled over at a small, run-down motel, cutting the engine to park. She unbuckled her seatbelt and then leaned to unbuckle J.'s. he was unconscious. The flickering neon sign outside was barely illuminating the pavement. 

The place looked forgotten, and this was exactly what she was looking for. They needed a place where they would be safe and where nobody would recognize J. or doubt him. Some of the rooms were dimly lit, and a faint glow was seen through the dusty windows.

"J., stay with me," K. murmured, her voice breaking. "I'm going to find us a room. I'll be back soon, ok?

She jumped out of the car, dehydrated and exhausted. She spotted someone standing under the neon light, exhaling smoke and smiling. She slowed her pace to avoid raising suspicion and walked toward the reception. 

The urge to look back ate her from the inside, and a sense of unease climbed up her spine. When she turned around, all she saw was the flickering neon light spreading its eerie glow on the parking lot and her parked car.

She pushed the door to the reception area, the sharp bell above declaring her presence. The man behind the counter looked up from his newspaper. 

He wore reading glasses that made his dark eyes look bigger, and he looked suspiciously big, enough to make her turn around. He was middle-aged, with graying hair and a shaven beard. The silence surrounding him was ominous. All K. could hear was the humming sound of the lights.

"Can I help you, miss?" he asked in a raspy voice.

"Yes," K. replied, trying to breathe through her nose. "We need a room for the night."

The man eyed her closely, removing his reading glasses and noticing the messy state she was in, but he remained silent. He reached under the cracks of the counter and grabbed a key. He slid it on the counter toward her.

"Room 8," he muttered, "It's at the end of the hall."

K. fumbled with her wallet, pulling out a few crisp dollar bills. Her hand trembled as she handed them over to him.

"How much for one night?" she asked.

"Fifty," he replied, without breaking the eye contact.

Carefully, she put a 50-dollar bill on the counter and clutched the rusty key with her other hand before turning to leave.

Something was unsettling about the large man's demeanor. The way he had eyed K. was unreassuringly ominous and it made her stomach squeeze. She was confused, for he hadn't asked about her information.

The man smirked as he sat back down and resumed reading his newspaper.

"You take care out there," he said, raising his voice slightly so K. wouldn't miss what he said.

K. froze for a while. She looked back and offered the man a faint, forced smile, but he didn't raise his eyes from the newspaper.

She pushed the door, stepping outside and causing the creepy bell to chime once more. There she was, back to the flickering, half-lit neon light and the deserted parking lot. She felt overwhelmed, worried, and unbeknownst to her — frightened.

She hurried back to the car, her only worry was saving J. She prayed to God his condition wouldn't worsen — because the ultimate solution would be to take him to a hospital, and that option was out of the question. 

The parking lot was now empty. The wind whistled, and crispy leaves danced on the muddy ground.

K. stopped to scan the area. Her car was parked where she had left it, but she noticed the passenger seat's door was wide open.

Panicking, she hurried to the car.

There was no sign of J.

His seat was empty.

"J.!" she shouted, her eyes widening. She circled the car, looking for him, but all she found were bloodstains on the dashboard from the side he had been seated on.

She ran back to the car trunk, and with trembling hands, she lifted it. His backpack wasn't there either.

Where is he? I left for one minute, K. thought.

She spun around, scanning the dark corners of the lot. The flickering sound of the neon sign amplified her panic and grew louder in her ears. She covered her ears, the noise now rising to a high-pitched screech.

"J.?" she called out, tears running down her cheeks.

But there was no answer.

The silence pressed in as she kneeled on J.'s passenger seat, her knees on the muddy ground. The car door was wide open. K. crossed her arms against the leather seat and started sobbing.