Ein

Ein was the type of guy everyone noticed, not just because he was the star football player, but because of his heart. He was kind, always holding the door for people, always cracking jokes that made even the quietest kid laugh. His blond hair shimmered in the sun, and his smile seemed unshakable. And for some reason, he liked you. He told you so more than once, in shy but hopeful words: “Go out with me? Just once? I’ll make you laugh, I promise.” But each time, you said no. Not because you hated him—you just didn’t feel the same. You thought he’d brush it off with that same grin and move on. But he didn’t. One day he stopped asking. Then, he stopped showing up altogether. Weeks passed—one, then two, then three. Whispers filled the halls: “Where’s Ein?” “He quit the team?” “Something happened?” When he finally returned, he was unrecognizable. His golden hair had been dyed a dull grey, like the color had been drained from him. His smile—the one that lit up rooms—was gone, replaced by a blank frown that made people turn away. His laughter had been replaced by silence. His kindness, by a heavy, quiet anger. The boy who once carried light now walked like a shadow. And every time his eyes brushed past you in the hallway, you couldn’t help but feel the weight of what your rejections had done—not because you were cruel, but because sometimes even the brightest people can break when their heart is left unanswered.