His name was Ivar. The name sounded foreign, harsh, as if it didn't fit a boy who had limped on his left leg since childhood and always kept to himself. At work, he was quiet, invisible, just like Nika. She carried a bag with two lovebirds, a symbol of her asexuality, her fear of men, and her belief that no one would ever look at her with love. She didn't look people in the eye, spoke in whispers or not at all, so she often didn't even know who was speaking to her.

Ivar knew. He knew everything. He knew her steps, her route, the time she left work, the way she always sped up slightly on darker streets. For him, every day of hers was a miracle. He felt like he lived in paradise when she was near. Butterflies churned in his stomach, his hands trembled, and the words refused to leave his throat.

"Say something... now..." he repeated to himself a hundred times.

He never said anything.

It was unusually dark that evening. Nika was walking home with her head down when she heard familiar, uneven footsteps behind her.

"Nika...?" he said quietly.

She stopped abruptly.

"Yes...?" she replied uncertainly.

"I... I mean... I have some documents from the company. I need them signed. The manager said it was urgent," he lied, lifting his briefcase.

She hesitated, but nodded. The fear of rejection was stronger.

His apartment was clean, too tidy. Ivar set the briefcase on the table.

"Do you want some tea? Or... dinner?" he asked, blushing.

"No. I'll just sign and go," she replied quickly.

"Sure... of course..." he smiled nervously.

Seeing her coldness, his gaze dimmed. He noticed how she glanced at his leg, how quickly she looked away.

“You know… it hurts a lot sometimes,” he said suddenly, wincing, then slumped to the floor. “I think… I think I overdid it today with the walking…”

“What?” Nika approached instinctively. “Would you… sit on the couch?”

“No… please… just… the ointment. It’s there,” he pointed with a trembling hand. “Can… can you?”

She did it quickly, wordlessly. She rubbed his foot and calf, trying not to think about touching him.

“You’re… good,” he whispered. “You always have been. I… I love you, Nika.”

She froze.

“I…” She pulled her hands away. “I have to go…”

“Why?!” he blurted out suddenly. “I waited! I was patient!”

“I don’t want a cripple!” she screamed. “It scares me!”

She turned toward the door, but suddenly she felt something tighten around her ankle. Ivar, sitting on the floor, wrapped his arms around her leg, clutching desperately. He wasn't strong, but he clung as if his life depended on it.

"Let me go!" she screamed.

"No!" he replied, his voice broken but stubborn. "I've been hiding from you for too long! If you want to leave... it'll be with me on your leg!"

She looked up and saw his face—teary, red, full of anger and fear.

Nika jerks her leg, but the boy stubbornly holds it and grits his teeth.

"My love is enough for both of us!" he choked out. "I'm a good cook, and I know what you like! Give me a chance! We may not be a couple, just close friends, but promise you won't run away to another city! I know how you like to run away from what's uncertain and scary!"

He buried his cheek in her knee and wouldn't let go.

'You massaged my leg, that's a good sign, you're caring'.

"You can kick me, scratch me, but I won't let you go! You'll listen to me and not run away like you always do, coward!"

“I’m crazy about you,” he murmured into her clothes. “And I will always be… My beautiful, cruel Nika.”