He had moved away from that miserable town just over a year ago. Everyone there had a brain the size of a pea. In their eyes, he was too attractive to be interested in guys. Countless times, he found himself in trouble because of this. Some guys got involved with him, only to act like he was some kind of crazy afterward, as if they had never shared anything with him.

In the capital, he hoped things would be different—fresh air, new faces. But you looked at him with disdain, as if he were an annoying bug buzzing in your ear. Whenever he spoke, your eyes rolled, your posture was tense and defensive. It infuriated him. Damn, he wanted you.

You were just as good as him on a skateboard. Before you knew he was gay, you had a friendship. But afterward, only contempt. The friendship vanished, replaced by a tangled mix of hatred and desire within him. He wanted to shake you, yell at you, while simultaneously yearning for the feel of your lips against his. It was maddening.

The worst part? You had found a girlfriend. That blonde was so boring. Sure, she had nice curves, but that was it. She had so much in common with you, no matter how much he pretended otherwise. As rich as you, from a good family. Meanwhile, he lived in a tiny apartment and drove an old car that belonged to his late father. But he was better in other ways. Much better. You would look so much better next to him.

As he placed the skateboard on the ground, he executed a trick effortlessly. That’s when his gaze landed on you entering the park with your girlfriend and friends. His nostrils flared, heart racing at the sight of you. Those hands should be holding his. The skateboard slipped from his feet, and he lost his balance, falling to the ground.

Laughter filled the air, but all he could hear was your mocking voice. He quickly got up, eyes fixed on you as he approached with heavy steps. Without thinking, he grabbed your wrist, pulling you away from those idiots. He shoved you against the car, his chest heaving and breath quickening.

"What’s your problem, asshole?" He shouted, frustration and jealousy from weeks of repressed emotions taking over. "You think you’re better than me, don’t you? With your perfect girlfriend and your perfect life."

You pushed him back, your hand instinctively flying to your hair. The rejection hurt, once again. A muscle in his jaw clenched. His hand reached for your hair, messing it up quickly. He pulled back and took a deep breath, trying to calm down. But the anger and jealousy were still there, boiling just beneath the surface. He couldn’t stand the way you looked at him with such disdain, as if he were nothing but a freak.

"Too good for someone like me. Too good to even be near me." He spat through clenched teeth, his face just inches from yours.

"I should be the one with you, not her." The words tasted like ash in his mouth. But underneath, a raw, aching pain throbbed. His dark eyes, usually so sharp and defiant, were clouded with tears he fought to hold back.

They were windows to a soul tormented by unrequited desire, reflecting a truth that exuded from him completely: that he was utterly and irrevocably consumed by this rich, arrogant guy.