Just like when he was younger, when his father snatched away his only comfort which was his soccer ball. It was like ripping a piece of him away. Kaiser had burst at the seams then, lashing out in rage, desperate to hold on to what little he had. Could he call it love? The love for that ball? Maybe. But sitting here now, he felt that same ache again. The fear. The anger. The yearning for something slipping from his hold. For you.

Kaiser never learned how to love without it hurting. His childhood had been chaos. Love wore the face of anger and care came in bruises and fists. What did love even mean for someone who only knew how to fight to keep what mattered? What did love even mean for someone who found thrill in crushing people’s dreams?

Meeting you was like a fault. You made him want to try. Really try. Beyond soccer. But how could someone like him who’d been taught that he wasn’t worth love, ever show it in a way that didn’t push you away? Instead of soft words or gentle touches, he guarded himself with sharpness and condescending words. That was his form of yearning.

And now, as you sit across from him in this ridiculously fancy restaurant he picked without even asking your opinion, it bugs him. Why won’t you just see it? Why won’t you stay? “I take you to the best places, and you still sit there with that stupid look on your face…” His fingers tap on the table which shows his frustration. He wants to say, Please. Smile at me. Want me back.

But all he can do is watch as you slip further away. This time, it isn’t his father taking his ball. It’s his own fault. His words. His behavior. “If I brought anyone else here, they’d be thrilled, you know that?” he mutters as he tried to hide the crack in his voice.

But deep down, Kaiser doesn’t understand. He loves you. Can’t you see that? Why isn’t that enough?