Rain poured harder now.
Not violently.
But enough to soak through clothes slowly.
Enough to make the streetlights blur across the wet pavement beneath them.
Cars passed occasionally nearby.
People walked around them without looking twice.
Because to strangers—
they were just two teenagers arguing in the rain.
Nobody could see the years sitting between them.
Nobody could see the abandonment.
The dependency.
The guilt.
The desperation.
Nobody could see how badly both of them were bleeding emotionally beneath the surface.
Chri stood still beneath the rain.
Hands inside his pockets now.
Face sharper than *** remembered.
Older.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
Meanwhile *** stood in front of him breathing unevenly.
Long blond hair wet against his face.
Hands trembling slightly.
Not from cold.
From fear.
Because every second of this conversation felt like reopening a wound he spent years pretending had already healed.
And Chri could see it too.
That's what made him crueler.
"You know what trying to help you feels like?"
His voice remained calm.
Almost tired.
Like he had already replayed this conversation a thousand times alone.
*** didn't answer.
Rainwater slid slowly from his jaw onto the street below.
Chri looked away briefly before continuing.
"It's like trying to save a dog that keeps throwing itself back into the ditch."
The word dog landed immediately.
Heavy.
Intentional.
And Chri knew exactly what he was doing.
"You pull it out."
A pause.
"You spend hours cleaning it."
"You stay awake worrying about it."
"You try to feed it."
His eyes slowly returned toward *** again.
"And then the second you look away…"
Another pause.
"…it jumps right back in."
Silence.
The rain filled the empty space between them.
***'s jaw slowly tightened harder.
Because part of him hated how accurate the metaphor felt.
But another part hated even more that Chri sounded genuinely exhausted saying it.
Not dramatic.
Not emotional.
Exhausted.
Then suddenly—
Chri laughed quietly beneath his breath.
A small bitter laugh.
And this time—
he deliberately emphasized the word:
"…Cane."
The way he said it made something inside *** twist violently.
Because it sounded less like an insult—
and more like a conclusion.
Chri tilted his head slightly.
Then smiled faintly.
"What are you besides somebody's dog?"
Silence.
"You need somebody to follow."
"You need somebody to save."
"You need somebody to orbit around."
Another pause.
"And the second nobody gives you that role anymore…"
His expression darkened slightly.
"…you collapse."
***'s breathing became uneven immediately.
Because the words touched something too deep.
Too real.
And suddenly—
he snapped back aggressively.
"And what are YOU without a dog?"
Chri's smile weakened slightly.
*** stepped closer now.
"You think you're complete now?"
Rain dripped from his eyelashes.
"You think you're mature because people praise you?"
His voice sharper now.
"Because people tell you how strong you are?"
Another step.
"You feel important because somebody depends on you."
Silence.
"So what happens when nobody needs you anymore?"
For the first time—
something flickered across Chri's face.
Not hurt.
Recognition.
But it vanished quickly.
Then quietly—
he answered:
"Oh, I grew up."
His voice cold now.
"Unlike you."
The sentence immediately made ***'s chest tighten.
Changed.
Everybody kept changing.
Leaving.
Moving forward.
Meanwhile he still felt trapped inside the same fears from years ago.
The same loneliness.
The same desperate need to matter to somebody.
And Chri noticed the hesitation immediately.
That's why his next question came softer.
Sharper.
More dangerous.
"Tell me something, Cristiano."
The full name froze him instantly.
Chri stared directly into his eyes now.
"Do you never change because you're afraid of changing?"
Silence.
"Or are you afraid of changing because you never change?"
The question echoed painfully inside ***'s head.
Because deep down—
he genuinely didn't understand which answer terrified him more.
Was he scared of becoming somebody different?
Or had he already convinced himself he physically couldn't become anything else?
His silence answered enough.
And Chri noticed immediately.
A quiet laugh escaped him.
Not mocking.
Disappointed.
"You still don't understand the question, do you?"
That broke something instantly.
Suddenly—
*** grabbed Chri violently by the front of his shirt.
"DON'T act smarter than me!"
His voice cracked loudly through the rain.
Several people nearby turned briefly before continuing walking.
"I KNOW I was sick!"
His grip tightened harder.
"I know I hurt people!"
His breathing became unstable.
"I know I fucked up!"
Rainwater mixed with tears across his face now.
"But YOU weren't always right either!"
Chri stared at him silently.
No anger.
Which somehow hurt more.
"You left too."
***'s voice weakened slightly.
"You abandoned me too."
For a second—
something almost human appeared in Chri's eyes.
Pain.
Then it disappeared again.
And suddenly—
his expression became completely cold.
Like a wall slamming shut.
Then quietly—
he asked:
"…Are you man enough?"
*** blinked once.
Confused.
"…What?"
Chri didn't look away.
Didn't move.
Only repeated it.
Slowly.
Clearly.
"Are you man enough…"
Rain dripped from his jaw.
"…to take the blame for this?"
Everything inside *** froze immediately.
Because suddenly—
the conversation stopped being about suffering.
Stopped being about abandonment.
Stopped being mutual.
The question became horrifyingly specific.
Take the blame.
Not share it.
Take it.
And for the first time since the conversation began—
*** had no response.
His grip loosened slightly.
Because deep down—
he knew exactly what Chri meant.
All those nights.
All those emotional collapses.
All those moments where people exhausted themselves trying to keep him alive while he simultaneously pushed them away.
And the terrifying part was—
part of him genuinely believed he deserved sympathy anyway.
Chri slowly pulled himself free from ***'s grip.
No struggle.
No aggression.
Just calm certainty.
Then quietly—
he said:
"…Because I am."
Silence.
"I can admit I hurt people."
Another pause.
"I can admit I failed too."
Rain hit the street harder around them.
"But I'm not wasting another second trying to drag honesty out of somebody still pretending they're only the victim."
*** felt his stomach twist violently.
Because the sentence hurt precisely because it wasn't entirely wrong.
Then finally—
Chri stepped backward slightly.
And with complete emotional exhaustion inside his voice—
he muttered:
"…I'm not going to talk with a pussy like you."
The insult itself didn't hurt most.
It was how tired he sounded saying it.
Like he genuinely wanted *** to prove him wrong.
But no longer believed he could.
And standing there beneath the rain—
watching Chri slowly walk away—
*** realized something terrifying.
For the first time in his life—
he didn't know whether he hate