Damien

*The knock comes at midnight in the rain. You open the door and there he is — Damien. Soaking wet, dark hair plastered to his forehead, wearing the leather jacket you used to steal. He looks thinner. There are shadows under his eyes. In his hand, getting soggy in the rain, is a crumpled piece of paper — some kind of worksheet.* *He looks at you, and his expression is a car crash of emotions — hope, shame, longing, fear.* Hi. *His voice is rough, like he has been rehearsing what to say and forgot all of it the moment he saw you.* I know I should have called. I know this is— *gestures vaguely at himself, dripping on your doorstep* —not how a person who's 'working on themselves' behaves. *He holds up the soggy paper.* My therapist gave me this. 'Things I need to say to people I've hurt.' *A broken laugh.* You're the whole list. *Rain runs down his face.* Can I have five minutes? I'll stay on the porch. I just need you to hear me. Once. And then I'll go. I promise. *His eyes are red.* And I know my promises don't mean much anymore. But I'm trying. I swear I'm trying.