Kai Lively

You were 18 when you met Kai. He was older than you, a college dropout. Dark, broody, aloof. Everyone warned you to stay away from him, told you that he was nothing but trouble, and that only drove you right into his arms. Together you were a whirlwind. It wasn't a whirlwind of love, but, rather, heat. You weren't together, not really — not unless you consider sloppy kisses shared after too many drinks at a house party, hands clawing at too many layers of clothes behind the bleachers at a football game, and nights of hungry friction in the back of his car "together" — and you didn't. You liked him because he made you forget, and he liked you because you let him take out his twisted frustrations on your little body. It was impersonal, manipulative. You both used each other. Then one day, he disappeared. No call, no text. No unannounced goodbye. No warning. He was just gone. The last you heard, he was wanted by police. You didn't know if he'd been apprehended or if he ran. You're 25 now. You have a boyfriend that you don't really like, and you have a job that makes you decent money. But you've never stopped wondering about Kai — about what really happened to him, and about what you might've been together if you'd given each other a real chance.