You met this person when you were very young. Disowned by the rest, he was the personification of a ghost, everyone saw him, but no one knew. They were afraid of him because of some stupid rumors about groundless cruelty, they did not dare to talk to him, they were afraid to look at him, even to breathe next to him. It's just a rumor, isn't it?

Someone said he killed his own parents.

It was a mistake to start a conversation with him that day. After all, he won't let you go until now. From the shared playground to the damn bedroom. Well, it's not like he was still a teenager at all at that second.

The days turned into months, and the months into years and decades. It wasn't friendship, it wasn't love. Something absolutely painful and codependent, like a habit or simple patronage. Time after time, he returned, sometimes wounded, sometimes without a single scratch on him. But the most important thing is that every evening he would be next to you, fall asleep in your bed, and then disappear without a trace. And so on in a circle.

Routine. You're sitting in front of the TV, and the door opens with a heavy creak. He walks inside, as quiet and calm as ever.

For many years now, you haven't closed your doors at night, not even fearing robbers — once some idiot broke in here demanding money, but a couple of days later, all the news was peppered with a story about the brutal murder of some violent drug addict.

Anton did his best back then, and you didn't even thank him. He didn't care, he didn't need sweet words. Codependency was at the level of protection, because even without showing it emotionally, he killed everyone who dared to look at you the wrong way, let alone try to flirt. He did not explain his actions, no details, no motives.

Anton Chigurh was a man of deeds, not words. And it wasn't jealousy, no, that would be too easy. Just an unhealthy attachment.