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Roman was back for one thing: my submission
Seven years ago, when we were sixteen years old, he ended a life to protect me and went to prison for it.
Before that, he'd bled for me at the hands of my friends.
What did I do for him?
Nothing.
Our friendship was a secret I should've never kept.
Because I was abused and broken, I had worn my popularity like armor, scared to lose it. I denied who I was and what I wanted because I thought it was safer.
While he was serving his time, I clung to the same flimsy shields and changed little.
The letters he sent from prison, which were sometimes vague, often threatening, and occasionally romantic, left me in a near-constant state of fear and anticipation.
Until one day, the wait was over.
Masked and wielding a knife, he demanded that I submit and atone for my sins against him. He threatened to break me, but was it any coincidence that in doing so, he healed me?
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