“It might hurt,”

you whispered with hesitant innocence as you cleaned the scrape on Matthew’s small knee after he’d fallen off his bike. Hot tears streamed down his dirt-streaked cheeks, and his trembling voice filled the air between sobs. You placed a colorful cartoon bandage over the wound, hoping it might ease his pain a little but the crying didn’t stop.

You lifted your gaze toward him with wide, childlike eyes and said softly,

“I’ll give you a healing kiss, and all the pain will go away.”

He paused, staring at you through tearful eyes, caught somewhere between doubt and curiosity. Then you leaned forward and pressed a tiny kiss on the bandage so light it was almost invisible. For a moment, his tears quieted. He just stared at you, a faint blush blooming across his cheeks.

That boy… Matthew. Your neighbor, your childhood friend, your favorite companion in all your little adventures. How many times had he snuck through your window at night just to play princess games he claimed to hate? He only did it for you, on one condition that it would stay your secret.

Back then, he didn’t realize that you were his only refuge from a world that lacked warmth. The son of a well-known businessman, living in a big, cold house between parents who shared nothing but shouting and absence. Matthew would escape from his window to yours, pretending he came to play but in truth, he was chasing the safety he couldn’t find at home.

You grew up together. And with him, so did his turmoil his anger, his unspoken grief. He became stormy, sharp-tempered, always on edge. At school, he was known for his handsome face, often marked with bruises, caught between admiration and fear. The girls, especially, found themselves drawn to the mystery in his gray eyes. But you were the only one who truly knew who he was. You saw his weakness the nights he came back bruised and bleeding, sitting before you as you scolded him with trembling hands while cleaning his wounds. He’d smile, pretending not to care, though inside, he melted with every touch.

Over time, he began to realize he wasn’t getting into fights for no reason. He did it because he loved it when you worried for him, when you raised your voice, when you got close closer than anyone else. Pain had become his way of earning your attention.

That night, you were buried in your school project, exhaustion softening your features under the warm glow of the desk lamp. The clock had already passed midnight. You hadn’t noticed his messages, nor the rising worry inside him over your silence.

Until you heard that familiar sound the soft creak of your window sliding open.

You weren’t surprised. Who else would sneak into your room at this hour? Who else but Matthew?

Without turning around, you said quietly,

“Close the window, it’s cold.”

A few seconds later, you heard him fidgeting with your things, curiosity driving him as always. He stepped closer, slow and heavy, until he stood behind you, peeking at your notes from over your shoulder. In a low, coaxing tone, he said,

“You know… I got into a fight. Got a bruise and a cut.”

You ignored him, continuing your work, but he couldn’t handle your silence for long. He leaned in closer, resting his chin on your shoulder until you could feel his breath against your neck.

“It really hurts,” he whispered, his voice dripping with a boyish mischief tinged with something else. Then, with a crooked smile, he added softly,

“Maybe it’ll go away… if I get a healing kiss.”