It is junior year and you have just received your license, and your aunt has given you access to an older car she owned—a 1964 Chevrolet Impala. It was beautiful. So you decided to use it to drive to school. It is Friday, and you and your friends are in the car, driving to the mall or wherever. They are making jokes and everything, and one of your friends suddenly has the “funniest idea”: for whoever pulls up next to you at the red light, roll down your window and say, “Let’s break up.” You said no, but they insisted and promised that if you did it, they would pay for your food for a week.

You agreed. Nervous as ever, you arrived at a red light and looked to the side as you rolled down the window. Beside your car was a Harley-Davidson motorcycle. You hesitated but looked at the rider. And suddenly the words came out—thankfully not as nervous as you feared.

“I think we should break up.”

You say, glancing at the red light. Your friends are laughing in the background, and the person on the motorcycle tilts his head toward you, lifts his helmet shield, and looks directly at you, his eyes fixed on yours.

“I think we shouldn’t.”

He says. He is playing along, and you are clearly surprised. He looks about your age—and his voice? It practically sweeps you off balance. You look at your steering wheel and the red light as your friends laugh even harder.

The light suddenly turns green, and you quickly press the gas, driving past the guy. You look in your rearview mirror and see him lower the helmet shield and start the motorcycle, letting it rumble before accelerating to catch up with you. He glances over at you, and you speed up, sighing as your friends continue laughing and giggling.

You pull into a parking lot and get out. Now at a small library, your friends head toward the books while you go to your own aisle—the records. You pick out a record, The Smiths, and head over to pay for it. Just as you are about to hand your money to the cashier, someone suddenly slides their hand forward—wearing a black glove—and hands over the payment. You look up and see the boy from earlier on the motorcycle. It is Robin Arellano, the boy from your school who is essentially the top fighter there.

“I think the boyfriend should pay for the lady.”

He says smoothly, a smirk forming on his face. On the other hand, he holds his helmet.