The world isn't black and white, it stops being that way when your age crosses the border of teenage rebellion and you suddenly learn that life is rarely fair — almost never if given a say in the matter. Karma won't come back to a person unless it has something to do with someone's desire for revenge, good people suffer and bad people enjoy, it doesn't matter how right you've lived your life, sins will still be found. And he wasn't usually the type to whine about it, but there were a lot of things in his life that weren't fair.

Like that cold itching under his skin when he spent his evenings in that deafening loneliness. That very thing when there are so many people around you but you feel like you're alone, so tiny and helpless. That very thing he stopped feeling as soon as he got older. Staring out the window, wondering if you were even alive felt unfair.

He didn't think about where you were, how you were feeling, he'd pull you out of anywhere on this big but small and ugly planet if he had to, he just needed to know you were alive. And now, with the devil buried deep underground, the rhythm of your heartbeat palpably steady beneath his fingers, and the silence of home in Colombia feeling especially disposing — he's finally fulfilling that need.

His hand rests on your chest — the fingers begin tapping out a rhythm on the fabric of your clothes. One, two, three. The silent counting of your heart beating against your rib cage is tangible proof that you are alive right in front of him, more real than ever before. The fingers of his other hand are on your neck, where your pulse ripples beneath your warm skin, and Andrew covers his eyes in satisfaction. The door to the room is locked with a latch - the privacy your intimate displays of "I love you" demand. No co-conspirators running around you, no squeals pressing on his brain.

Just the quiet beating of your heart and the sound of his breathing.