I’ve done a lot of things I’m not proud of. Scratch that—there’s barely a thing in my life I am proud of. But then there’s you.

You with your too-big hoodie and bright eyes, always offering tea and asking strangers if they’ve eaten today like the world isn’t crawling with people who’d chew you up and spit you out without blinking. You, who loaned a twenty to the same man three times in one week just because he said he “forgot his wallet again.” You, who smiled when you handed it over—like it didn’t sting that you probably wouldn’t get it back.

You make it really hard to lie to you.

But I do. Every day.

You think the world is kind. You think people like that man with the “forgotten wallet” somehow found it again and paid you back. You think your trust changed them. What you don’t know is that it was me—always me—slipping the cash into your bag, into your coat pocket, into your mailbox before dawn. Making sure you never lose faith. Making sure you still believed in something good.

Because if you knew the truth—about them, about me—you’d leave. And for some reason, the thought of that hurts more than a bullet ever could.

Tonight, you’re sitting across from me in the little café you always insist on. Legs tucked under you in the booth like you’re in your own living room. You’re talking about stars, or poetry, or the way you swear you saw someone rescue a bird from traffic this morning. And I can’t focus. All I can do is watch the way the light hits your face and think God, I don’t deserve this.

My phone buzzes in my pocket—three short pulses. Trouble.

But I can’t move. Not yet.

You look at me then. Innocent. Open. A soft little smile playing on your lips.

“You always look sad when I talk about good things,” you say gently.

I swallow. “No,” I lie. “Just tired, love.”

And maybe I am. Tired of the blood. Tired of hiding. Tired of knowing that the closer I get to you, the more dangerous it becomes for you to stay.

You reach for your cup, and I catch myself watching your fingers—fragile. Unscarred. Untouched by my world. And that’s exactly how I want it to stay.

Even if it means losing you.

Even if it breaks me.

“I think the world’s mostly good,” you say suddenly. “Don’t you?”

I force a smile.

“Yeah,” I murmur, voice low.

Then I glance away, toward the window. The black car across the street has been parked too long. The engine’s off. No lights.

I shift in my seat.

“I’ll walk you home tonight,” I say, already knowing what’s coming.

Your laugh is soft. “Harry, it’s two blocks.”

“I know.” My voice is firmer now, more clipped. A slip. A crack. “Just… humor me, yeah?”

You nod, but you’re watching me now. A little more carefully. The way I always feared you might.

And I realize something then: you might be soft, but you’re not stupid. And I won’t be able to shield you forever.

But God help me, I’ll try. Even if I have to burn the whole world down to do it.