That morning, as I walk the cracked path toward school, I found myself unusually content. No, not merely content—joyful, as though life itself had decided to cradle me in its fleeting, fickle arm And why? Because I had, at last, what every adolescent boy imagines will redeem his meaningless existence: a girlfriend. Yes, a real one. Intelligent, delicate, lovely—a girl who could not possibly belong to someone like me. And yet she did. Or so I believed.
As I walked, I wondered how I, of all people, managed to hold onto someone so radiant. I was not deserving. But perhaps that's why I clung to her all the more desperately. I made promises to myself. I would abandon my vices. I would clean my wretched room, that filthy cavern of solitude and sin. I would read books—not for leisure, but to become someone worthy. A man, not a boy.
We had been together six months by then, since June. It was now November, and though we shared nothing in common, we made it work. Or perhaps I made it work. My hands always reached, always repaired. Her smile was enough.
That day, however, I entered the classroom and found her laughing—not with me, but with another man. A friend, perhaps. She sat beside him often. Talked with him frequently. They shared hobbies, you see, things I could never relate to. I told myself I was pleased she had a friend, that I was secure in my place beside her. After all, her friends from earlier terms were now in another class.
Then one day, one of her gay friends—sarcastic, sharp, the kind who sees too much—teased her. He implied she spent too much time with that boy, even to the point of neglecting me. She dismissed it casually, said she had been talking to me in text. I should've felt reassured. I didn't.
And then it happened. The boy tickled her.
A simple gesture. Innocent, perhaps. But something shifted in me. Not in the heart—no, in the gut. A churning, unspeakable thing. I smiled through it. I told myself, as all modern men are taught to, that I must be understanding. I must not control. I repeated it like scripture.
Yet it gnawed at me. She never sat beside me of her own accord. Never reached for me first. I always had to ask. Always had to initiate. It was as if her affection was currency, and I paid dearly for every coin.
Doubt set in.
I began to wonder: Did she truly want to be with me, or merely tolerate me?
The answer came, indirectly, through her friend—the same sharp-tongued confidante. We spoke during a break, she still upstairs. He told me they had argued recently. Over what? Over that same boy. He had told her that I felt uncomfortable, that I had even asked for space between them. She knew, then. She knew before I said a word. And still she remained close to him.
A crack appeared.
I began to tally every moment she came to me only when she wanted something. Snacks, a favor, a distraction. Never simply for me. The darkness within me stirred—not rage, not jealousy, but something older. A kind of betrayal that predated words.
We argued. For the first time, I told her: leave him or I leave you. She chose me. Or rather, she pretended to. Three days passed. She spoke to him again, as if nothing had occurred. The humiliation of it all curdled into hatred—not for her, but for him. The man who disrupted my fragile illusion of happiness.
One day, after a particularly bitter exchange with her, I confronted him. I do not remember what I said. I do not remember lifting the rock. I only remember the silence afterward, the eerie calm as I looked down and saw him, lifeless, beneath a fragment of the building.
My hand was trembling. My stomach twisted. I had imagined I would feel satisfaction. I felt nothing but terror.
I fled. I did not go to school the next day. I remained in my room, paralyzed by the certainty that I would be caught. Every step outside my door sounded like an officer approaching. I waited for the knock.
But it never came.
When I finally returned to school, I was a shadow. Pale, shivering, hollow-eyed. A shopkeeper called out to me and I nearly collapsed. He only returned my dropped wallet. I stammered a thank you and fled.
In class, my teacher announced the news. The boy had died. A part of the old roof had collapsed on him. The cameras had captured nothing. An accident, they said.
I should have felt relief. I felt nothing.
Only emptiness. And then—disappointment. That I would not even be punished. That I had killed, and still breathed freely. Perhaps that, too, was a punishment.
The days dragged. I grew paranoid. Anxious. My girlfriend and I walked home together one evening. She wept for the dead boy. Spoke of him endlessly, mourning as if she had lost a brother.
I listened, silent. Wondering. If I had died, would she have mourned me the same?
We returned to her room. I tried to steer the conversation away, but she returned to him again and again. I asked gently, then firmly, then desperately. Still she spoke of him.
And then—I broke.
I seized her by the throat. Screamed. Called her vile things. Demanded to know why she cared for him so much, why she never gave me that kind of devotion.
And then she was silent.
Her body limp.
I held her. Rocked her. Begged her name: "Ann? Ann?"
But she was dead.
Her parents walked in, alerted by the noise. They saw everything. There would be no hiding. I confessed to it all—the boy, the girl.
I was taken away. Juvenile prison. A cage, perhaps, but no worse than the one inside me.
And now, as I sit alone in this cold, gray cell, I know what I am.
A murderer. A coward. A man who sought love, and found only madness.
I'm a horrible person.
(Disclaimer all of this are just fiction)
Lil relationship advice From the author:
Always ask this 3 things When you're in a relationship
1 do they make you better?
2 are you satisfied with her /her
3 do you love them?