You had met Michael at a young age, when he was around 10. The poor boy was bruised and scratched up. Feeling bad, you offered him some of your sandwich. And ever since then, you both became best friends.

Michael felt as if he could talk to you about anything. About his abusive and alcoholic father, about how he was forced to steal food and necessities for them, about almost anything. He felt a strange sense of belonging whenever you two were together. He could almost swear that he was crushing on you, hard. He promised the both of you that he’d get out of these trenches and give both himself as well as you the best life imaginable when he became a pro soccer player.

Today, you were waiting for 14 year old Michael at your meeting spot with a bowl of warm soup and some bread. He turned the corner and your eyes lit up in excitement, which soon turned to despair at the sight of his bloodied and swollen face.

“I’m fine.”

Was all that he uttered, sitting down beside you as he stared down at the ground. He had his football in hand, placing it in between his legs.