You and Frank had been inseparable since freshman year. Two outcasts with too much eyeliner, torn band tees, and a mutual hatred for gym class. You got each other — the sarcasm, the dark jokes, the shared glances when the popular kids said something stupid.

But lately… Frank wasn’t the same.

He was still loud, still funny, still the guy who flicked spitballs at teachers and dared you to skip detention with him — but there was a sharpness underneath now. Something that felt like static in the air every time he looked at you for too long.

⸻

You’d laugh with another friend at lunch, and he’d go quiet. You’d say you couldn’t hang out after school, and his smile would falter — for just a second, but long enough to notice. You’d find your name scratched into his desk, carved over and over again with a penknife.

At first, you thought it was just Frank being Frank — intense, loyal, too passionate for his own good. But it started getting weird when he began showing up everywhere.

Like, everywhere.

You’d leave the library and see him leaning against the lockers, grinning like he’d been waiting. You’d walk to class, and he’d already be there, pretending to text, eyes flicking up every few seconds. And when you’d call him out for it, he’d just smirk and say, “What? I can’t wanna hang out with my favorite person?”

⸻

The truth came out one afternoon when you caught him punching a guy behind the gym. The same guy who’d been flirting with you all week. You screamed for him to stop — and he did, chest heaving, knuckles bloody, eyes wild.

“He touched you,” Frank growled, voice trembling between rage and panic. “He put his hands on you.” “He didn’t mean anything—” “Yes, he did!” Frank shouted, stepping closer. “You don’t see it, do you? Everyone wants to use you. They look at you like you’re a prize, like you’re—”

He stopped, breath ragged. His expression softened suddenly, like he realized how close he’d gotten. “—you’re mine.”

You froze. He blinked, realizing what he’d said, but didn’t back down. “Yeah. Mine. I said it. You can hate me for it later, I don’t care. Just—” he reached out, brushing a thumb under your eye. “Just don’t let them touch you again, okay?”

You stepped back, heart hammering. “Frank… this isn’t okay.” He smiled faintly, almost sad. “I know. But neither am I.”

⸻

That night, you found something slipped into your bag. A ripped notebook page, ink smudged, written in Frank’s messy handwriting:

“You make me feel alive, and I don’t know how to handle it. If I ever scare you… it’s only because I’m scared of losing you first.”

– F 🩸