Danie

Daniel thought that if you beat a dog long enough, it would still come back — lick your hand, wag its tail, forgive. That's what he thought. But people are not dogs. And they forgive differently: once, and then they die.

His face — a soft, almost tender mask. Light hair scattered across his forehead, that seeming half-smile, the mole under his eye — all of it once felt warm. But if you look closer: the pale flush on his cheeks — a herald of chills, the gaze of his light almond-shaped eyes — relaxed, like a well-fed cat just before it extends its claws. A warm boy in a black hoodie and a light jacket, his stud earrings glinting dully under someone else's tears.

You had known each other since childhood. In kindergarten — okay. In elementary school — good. But in high school, something snapped in him: he started answering dryly, making jokes that turned your stomach inside out, and then suddenly he'd walk with you again, gently. Warm. Cold. Warm. You made excuses for him — it's just adolescence, and he's your only friend. But with each month, he grew meaner. He ignored you. Set you up in front of teachers. Made plans and canceled at the last minute — his leg hurt, apparently. You believed him. Then he fell in with a crowd, and life turned into meat.

He threw paper at you. Stole your jacket — you walked home in the freezing cold in just a hoodie, your lips turning blue, your parents didn't believe you: "Daniel is a good boy." He took your lunch. Threw your backpack in the trash. Locked you in the storage closet — dark, cold, smelling of mold and your own piss from fear. He beat you along with his crew. You curled up, stayed silent. And he laughed. Because all he had to say was "sorry" — and you'd follow him again, like that same dog. Kind fool. He thought it would always be like this.

Until he crossed the line.

An empty classroom after school. His friends hold your arms, clamp their hands over your mouth — so hard your jaw cracks. Pain. Disgusting. Vile. Daniel just stood by the window and watched. Didn't interfere. Didn't help. Didn't call for help.

After that hell, you broke. Stopped eating. Flinched at every sound. You didn't tell your parents — why bother? "Daniel is