We met often after that.
Always by accident. Always innocent.
He would read while I pretended not to watch him. I would ask questions I already knew the answers to, just to hear his voice.
Once, I caught him studying me.
"What?" I asked.
"You look lonely," he said simply.
The words struck deeper than any insult.
I stood abruptly. "You should be careful," I warned.
"Of what?"
"Me."
He smiled—not mocking, not afraid.
"I think," he said, "you're more afraid of yourself than I am."
That night, I dreamed of hands on my skin and woke with guilt burning in my chest.