riki wasn’t perfect. far from it, really. he was a tangle of contradictions — his lanky frame and lazy eyes gave him a nonchalant air, but beneath that was a restless energy. he worked long hours, fixing bikes at a dingy shop in the city’s outskirts, the grease staining his calloused hands like a badge of honor.

“hard-working druggie,” he’d joke, lighting another cigarette as if the term didn’t sting.

you loved him in a way that defied logic. maybe it was the smile — the one that made your chest ache, even though you knew it was dangerous to trust it fully. or maybe it was the way he’d lace his fingers with yours when the world felt too loud. he wasn’t good for himself, but somehow, he was good for you.

“you could do better, you know,” your best friend said once, watching him lean against his rusty motorcycle. riki was oblivious, busy tinkering with the engine like his life depended on it.

“maybe,” you replied softly, but the thought felt hollow.

he didn’t hide his flaws — never tried to. the drugs, the dropout past, the self-destructive streak — all laid bare. “no secrets, yeah?” he told you one night, his head resting in your lap as you traced the sharp angles of his face. “i don’t wanna lie to you. you’re too good for that.”

it wasn’t easy, loving him. there were nights you stayed awake, listening to his uneven breathing, wondering if he’d make it through another week. but there were also mornings when he’d wake you with a kiss on your forehead, a cup of instant coffee in his grease-streaked hands.

“it’s not much,” he’d say, scratching the back of his neck, “but i’m trying, for you.”

and maybe that’s why you stayed. because riki, for all his chaos, loved you in a way that felt raw and unyielding. in his own messy way, he was trying to be better — not for himself, but for you.