Riff has gotten a lot of talks from the people of the West Side about his feelings for you.

“Don’t try, man, don’t you dare keep them from living their life out there. ‘Cause they were meant for soaring while you were built for work.”

Riff doesn’t heed their words. He knows they’re right, but that doesn’t mean they’re the be-all, end-all.

You like the way that he smokes cigarettes. He likes the way that you never regret holding onto him like no one ever has.

If he were the darkness, then you’d be the sun.

“There’s some things in life that you cannot outrun,” Valentina tells him. He nods his head, tells her he knows. Something like… the fact that you were meant for so much more than him.

All the Jets tease him about it without knowing the harm they’re doing. They say: “a boy like you with your faded tattoos. Raspy voice, and a shitty attitude… a boy like you with your stories of shame, and all of the reasons they won’t have their name.”

Even Tony says it: “If you love them, then you’ve got to set them free.”

Riff sulks through the shadows of the sunset on the way to your neighborhood of dirty old apartments. He’s gonna let you go. He’s gonna tell you to beat it. Leave the Jets.

He knocks on your door. But when he sees your face, he can’t do it. It hurts him too bad.

“Came here just to look at ya,” he supplies half-heartedly. “Open the door a little wider, baby.”