I don’t know if I should have opened the door.

He usually had his keys – reason one.
He would never stay at our house on weekends – reason two.
Storms scared him shitless – reason three, and it might as well have been the only one.

But I opened the door, and found him standing there, panting, resting his hands on the doorframe. I made him come in, but he just clung to me, breath irregular and face wet with rain.

“Are you okay?”

“Don’t… worry. I’m… I’m just crying.”

I believed his words, and hugged him back. My hand ran up and down his back, comforting him, until I felt something odd.
I pulled him away, still holding him from the shoulders, and looked at him. His eyes were closed, but I failed to notice his slow breathing.
A thunder struck and I got a quick glimpse of our bodies.

“You’re not crying. This is blood.”

He nodded weakly and his breathing stopped.

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