Later that evening, it began raining heavily. The weather did nothing to improve my mood, and I fiddled around with my necklace as music played in the background. After a few minutes, my eyes drifted toward the dark street. Someone was standing outside the window, looking in. A car passed by and the headlights illuminated the figure’s face. It was the boy, dressed only in a shirt and jeans. As soon as he saw me watching him, he began walking away. Without a second thought, I ran out into the rain and desperately tried to catch up to him. Even though he heard my loud and heavy footsteps behind him, the boy didn’t turn around. After several more steps, I was close enough to grab his arm. He didn’t reply, and his silence was worse than any rude command. The boy continued to walk on, but suddenly staggered onto me. Even in the dark alleyway, I could see how pale his face was.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, feeling the rain from his clothes soak into mine. He said nothing even as I put my arms around his waist. When he straightened up, I refused to let go of him.

“No,” he said, struggling to get away from me. The boy put his icy cold hand on mine and I flinched but continued holding on.

“Let go,” he said more sharply, this time twisting. He stepped away and turned to face me. The front of his shirt was red, and when I saw my hands, they were stained with his blood.

“Did he cut you?” I asked, in shock. The boy avoided my gaze.

“Yes,” the boy said curtly, “because I didn’t cut him.” He looked exhausted, and I wondered if he had fought the entire group of boys. He leaned against the chain-link fence and sighed heavily. I contemplated forcing him to go to the hospital, but I doubted his pride would allow him to seek help.

“Let me help you,” I said a little tentatively. Though he shook his head, as soon as I moved closer toward him, he leaned against me. With slow steps, I eventually managed to get him back to the café. I set him down on the sofa seat, and rolled up his wet shirt. There was a long ragged gash that oozed blood, and though the boy muttered something, I ignored him and reached for the first aid kit.

“I don’t need you,” he said weakly, attempting to sit up. I pushed him back down and began to clumsily clean and bandage his wound.

“I’m sorry,” I said as he winced. “I haven’t done this before.” His eyes drifted towards the ceiling, and for a few minutes, the music playing in the background was the only sound in the café.

“I didn’t fight him,” he told me quietly, “because I still remember how I felt last time. I almost ruined his eye.” I didn’t know what to say, so I began drying his hair.

“My father was so angry at me,” he continued, “and if I hadn’t stormed out, he would’ve thrown me out of the house.”  Something dripped down his face, and I couldn’t tell if it was the rain water or tears.

“I’m sorry,” I said, sitting down beside him. There was a wetness on my face too, and I wiped at it hurriedly.

“Don’t cry,” he said, settling his head in my lap. I tilted my head in confusion.

“I’m not crying,” I said. “It’s just the rain water.”

“I’m sorry for making you cry,” he said, as if he hadn’t heard what I had just said. Slowly, he closed his eyes and his lashes fluttered slightly.

“You don’t make me cry,” I whispered, pressing my lips to his forehead. “In fact, you give me all the reasons to smile.”