My name is Harry Vedman. I'm a twenty-year-old college student, and if I'm being honest with myself, I'm a bit of a cliché.
I'm a virgin, not by choice, but by a paralyzing sort of hesitation that has defined my life for as long as I can remember.
It isn't that I'm unattractive. I have what people call an "above-average" face, I maintain a solid GPA, and I'm athletic enough to hold my own on a court.
But when it comes to the people I actually care about, I freeze.
I never say the words.
I just leave my feelings behind, tucked away in a corner of my mind where they can't hurt anyone—least of all me...
I live in Ashmere, a city that feels more like a sprawling village when compared to the steel-and-glass giants of the nearby metropolises, with my stepmother and sister in a middle-class house.
The house itself is not that big; it is a two-storey home, with a kitchen, living room, and a bathroom on the ground floor. Upstairs, there are only two bedrooms and a walk-in closet that serves as a graveyard for old toys.
Because of the lack of space, I'm forced to share a room with my sister, Chloe. It isn't a terrible arrangement, and no, I don't hate her. We've always been close, but sharing a small square of carpet with an eighteen-year-old woman is a minefield of awkwardness.
Take today, for example.
"Chloe, how many times have I told you to have some decency in the presence of the opposite gender?"
I'm standing by the door, trying to keep my eyes fixed on the ceiling.
Chloe is sprawled across her bed, wearing nothing but thin shorts and a camisole, one leg dangling lazily off the edge her thumbs flying across her phone screen as she giggles at a notification.
"It's alright, brother," she says, her voice airy and dismissive. She doesn't even look up. "It's just you here. It's not like you're a stranger."
That's the problem.
She is far too casual around me.
I sigh, already knowing this argument is pointless. Trying to teach Chloe modesty is like trying to teach a cat table manners. I grab my backpack, shoving my notes and laptop inside with more force than necessary.
"Brother, are you going somewhere?" Chloe finally looks up, her dark black eyes wide with a sudden, feigned innocence.
"Alex's house," I say, already halfway down the stairs. "I need a place where I can actually focus."
"Wait! Why are you leaving me alone?" She scrambles off the bed, her dark brown hair a bit messy.
Her bare feet are padding loudly on the hardwood as she follows me down to the foyer. "Mom isn't home, Harry. You're supposed to take care of the house... and me! It's dangerous for a girl to be home alone."
I stop at the front door and reach for my sneakers. "You're eighteen, Chloe. You're legally an adult. I have full faith that you can manage to stay inside a locked house for a few hours without causing a disaster."
I see her lower lip tremble, the classic 'Chloe Pout.' She's used to getting her way with a single look. Before she can launch into a full-scale performance, I cut her off.
"And no, you cannot come with me. Alex is already distracted enough as it is. If you show up, he'll spend the whole night trying to impress you instead of helping me finish my assignment. So you, stay home."
"Oniii-chan..." she whines, drawing out the syllables in that high-pitched, mocking tone she knows I can't stand.
I glance back at her. She looks genuinely pathetic standing there, her eyes shimmering as if she's on the verge of a breakdown. My heart twinges. I almost dropped my bag. I almost stay. But I know this trick; I've seen it since she was little.
"Don't. The 'onii-chan' trick won't work today. Lock the door from the inside, Chloe. I'll be back by evening."
I practically bolt out the door, escaping into the afternoon heat before my resolve crumbles. I can hear her huffing in annoyance behind the wood.
I know exactly why she wanted me to stay: it's her turn to do the dishes and vacuum the rug. Acting sweet is her favorite way to bypass manual labor.
The sun is high and unforgiving as I walk toward the bus stop. The streets of Ashmere are quiet this time of day, the neighborhood humming with the distant sound of lawnmowers and cicadas.
"Good afternoon, Harry."
The voice is like a soft chime, and it sends a jolt through my chest. I stop, my breath catching for a split second. I know that voice.
"Good afternoon, Rose," I say.
I don't look at her. I can't. Rose is the kind of woman who radiates a gentle, tragic sort of beauty, the kind that makes you want to reach out and fix whatever is making her look so tired. She is also a teacher at my college.
I've spoken to her a few times, apart from her classes, mostly when I've seen her looking sad or overwhelmed by her husband's temper. Those conversations were innocent, just a few kind words to let her know someone noticed her.
But ...
"Harry, wait, I have to tell you something…" Rose's voice came from behind.
I suppress the urge to turn around and keep walking, my pace quickening. I pull out my phone and text Alex: On my way. Be there in 20 min.
When I reach the bus stand, it's empty save for two men sitting on the metal bench. They are massive, the kind of men who look like they eat gravel for breakfast. Their skin is a map of dark ink and old scars.
I try to make myself small, sitting at the far end of the shelter, pulling my phone out to scroll through meaningless videos. I'm just trying to be a ghost.
"Excuse me, boy."
A shadow falls over me, blocking out the sun.
I look up. One of the burly men is standing directly in front of me. Up close, he's even more terrifying. His arms are the size of my thighs, and his knuckles are calloused. He wears a grin that doesn't reach his eyes, a jagged, predatory expression.
"Umm, yes? " My voice sounds thinner than I'd like.
"Are you Harry Vedman?" he asks. His voice is a low rumble, like stones grinding together.
"I am. How can I help you, sir?"
I don't wait for an answer. Every instinct in my body is screaming danger, my thumb slides across my phone, hitting the 'Recent' list. I tap Alex's name, praying the call connects in my pocket. If I can't escape, at least someone will hear what's happening.
"Hahaha! Boris, do you hear this? This little brat is asking if he can help me. He's calling me 'sir'!"
The man laughs, a harsh, barking sound. He looks over my shoulder at his companion. I start to stand, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird, but I'm too slow.
A white-hot flash of pain explodes at the base of my skull.
The world tilts. The concrete pavement rushes up to meet my face. I taste iron and grit. My vision swims, blurring into a hazy mess of grey and red.
Through the ringing in my ears, I see a shadow standing over me, a second burly man holding a metal rod, red-stained and dripping with my blood, before falling onto the hot asphalt.
I should have stayed home, I think, the darkness rushing in to swallow me. I should have just stayed with Chloe.