I read the flyer in my hands again, and sighed. The construction crews that were repairing something or the other had announced that they were going to cut out the electricity for a day. Luckily, it had been a slow day, and few people entered my dark café. Later in the evening, I sat by the window, reading a book by the light of the construction crew’s flashlights. The tinkle of the door caused me to instinctively bolt up and brush down my apron.

It was the boy, and he staggered in. With great effort, he sat down on the sofa seat and I gingerly sat down beside him. I noticed an angry red mark around his neck and an ugly bruise that decorated his cheek. His necklace was tangled and I unconsciously reached out to fix the golden mess. The boy recoiled as if I had hit him and slapped my hand away.

“Don’t touch me,” he said vehemently. I hesitated, but continued to sort out the chain. The boy glared at me, but I continued on without faltering. After a few minutes, as I was struggling with a particularly complicated knot, his long fingers weaved around mine and held on tightly. Tiredly, he placed his head on my shoulder and closed his eyes. I had sat like this once with a boy, many years ago. We had been watching a movie, and during scenes that frightened him, he curled up close beside me and entwined his fingers around my hand. I had been awkward, saying the wrong things as I tried to comfort him. He’d started crying, but he wouldn’t let go of me. Now, I looked down at the boy and my eyes softened. Suddenly, his eyes opened, and he turned to face the window. He shifted his body away from my shoulder and roughly let go of my hand. We sat in silence measured by our breaths. He was the one who chose to break it.

“What is love?” he asked me, watching my reflection in the glass.

“I don’t know,” I admitted, as the boy scowled.

“You know what it isn’t? Can you say there’s love between a man who has a mistress and his wife?” the boy asked, the anger rising in his voice. I shook my head, but he didn’t seem to see me.

“ing bastard,” he swore, as his voice shook slightly. “My own father abandons the one woman who’s stuck by him all his life for a ty .”

“And you know what he called her?” he asked hoarsely. “He called her y.” I said nothing as the boy’s walls came down.

“What does y mean?” he asked me, almost childishly. He faced me, and I could see a few tears making their way down his cheek.

“You use it to describe a person you love, but don’t know,” I quoted quietly, gently wiping the tears away from his face. I traced his bruise and froze.

“You’re y.” The whispered words slipped out of my mouth.

“Don’t call me that.” The boy grabbed my hands.

“Then let me get to know you.”