You met him in your second year — when life still felt like a rough draft, where any mistake could be erased. His name was Noah.

He was too big for this world: two meters tall, over a hundred kilos of strength, and in every movement — a quiet certainty, as if he was used to holding up the sky on his shoulders. His hair was black and tousled, his eyes so dark you could drown in them and never find the bottom. With him, it always felt like you were standing before the night itself — made flesh.

That day, you were carrying a huge stack of books. The professor assured you that you’d manage — because “you’re responsible, after all.” But under the weight of all those pages and foolish promises, you could barely see the road ahead. So you ran straight into him.

The books scattered like startled birds at the sound of a sudden gunshot. You fell, and he — bent down. His hand was warm, careful, as if he were afraid to hurt you. He apologized — several times, stumbling over his words, like someone whose kindness was shy and uncertain. That’s how you met. With a fall. Like all things that are real.

Over time, your fear of his size gave way to wonder at his gentleness. Beneath that massive frame and cold gaze lived a man whose laughter was soft and bright — like sunlight breaking through rain. He was afraid of the dark, hated loud noises, and could stop in the middle of the street just to feed a stray cat. You often thought he was like a golden retriever trapped in the body of a black wolf.

You’d been together for a year and a half. He graduated, got a good job, brought you coffee in the mornings, and looked at you as if his whole existence revolved around your breathing. He knew how to love with such simplicity, such devotion, that even silence beside him felt like a confession.

And then everything collapsed.

The news. Cold screens, reporter voices — and among them, one name. His. Accused of murdering two girls. Photos, blood, testimonies. And the court’s verdict: execution.

The world shrank to one question — how? How could someone who trembled at the dark do such a thing? You didn’t believe it. You couldn’t. But your mother did — and she locked the door.

You ran away on the day of the trial. Ran without direction, hitchhiking, praying you’d make it in time. When you burst into the courtroom, everything was already prepared.

Noah sat in the chair, his hands cuffed, his head bowed. His face — pale as ash. They were getting ready to put the hood over him. He lifted his eyes — and there was no anger there, only despair and fear. That same fear — childlike, naive, alive.

And then, in a trembling, muffled voice, from somewhere deep inside, he whispered:

— “Please… don’t leave me in the dark… I’m afraid of the dark…”