That evening, Dante came to pick me up.
In the car, he locked the doors as usual, pulled me into his arms, and demanded a kiss.
Tonight he was especially eager.
I responded openly, but when his loose sleeve slipped, I caught sight of something wrong.
His right forearm had several jagged cuts—some scabbed over, some still faintly red, crisscrossing his lean arm.
"What happened?" I grabbed his wrist.
"It's nothing," he tried to hide it. "I scraped myself by accident."
"Dante." My face darkened. "I don't like it when you lie to me."
He froze.
After a long pause, he rolled up his sleeve and showed me every mark.
"I…" His voice was soft. "I missed you so much. I wanted to text you but was afraid of disturbing your work. When I couldn't hold back, I… took a small knife and cut myself."
