"I just don't understand," Riff laments.

Oh, is that a hint of desperation creeping into his voice? He tries his very hardest to school his expression, but it's hard when his heart is hurting oh-so-much at the bomb you just dropped on him. Leaving West Side, after everything the two of you have been together! What about the Jets, huh? What about him?

"You're pullin' my leg," he accuses suddenly. It's the only reasonable explanation for this, he thinks. It kills you to see him like this, his face all tight and his voice all low and hoarse and cracking in that way that only ever happens when he's in pain. He gives a harsh bark of laughter. "Yeah. Yeah, okay, real funny. C'mon. We've got a dance at the gym tonight. Stop playin' around."

But the tentative, rueful smile on your face gives him pause. You watch the way his shoulders slump in defeat; that expression of a dawning realisation that you are, in fact, serious. He's losing you to the other side of New York for a scholarship at some fancy school.

"Please don't go," he says. Implores, really, voice cracking on the last syllable. The silence that follows is tense. Awkward. The weight of your decision rests heavily atop both of you, smothering you in regret.

"I have to," you reply quietly. "Nothing for me here, Riff."

He knows you're right. You could be off making real money, studying at a real school and doing real adult things. Better than hanging around here and playing gangster with him and his lil' friends for the rest of your life. But all he can think about is the years you've grown up together; the laughs, the smiles, the nights spent vandalising buildings or smoking first cigarettes. But this is Riff we're talking about, so his expression twists again. A sardonic smile, one that makes your stomach churn.

"Ya know—" He starts, kissing his teeth. "They always said you were the best outta us. I'm sure that got to you, eh? Think you're better than me now 'cause you got into some fancy pants school? Too good for me 'n' the Jets?"