reply. I just turned and ran, the image of his disgusted face burned into my memory. Back in my dorm

anything that reminded me of him. His old hoodie, a concert ticket stub, the small, framed photo of us from

d, their voices filled with panic. He' s probably just confu

e times he helped you? One voice chimed in, softer, more insid

st... stunned? He's not good with social cues, you know. Another voice rationalized, painting Colten as a helpless, innocent victim of his own brilliance.

relies on you, his sweet, understanding girlfriend! He

ng over the bin. My eyes fell on the small stack of folded letters, tied with a faded ribbon. My old

ge lurch. Along the margins, in neat, red ink, were corrections. Spelling mistakes, grammar errors,

im! He treasures your words, even if he has to make them grammatically correct! It' s his way of showing love! The Comments swooned, interpre

tly taken of him during one of our study sessions in high school. He was slumped over a textbook, his brow f

s staying up all night studying, and tutoring you! He put your academic future a

, but nothing stuck. The numbers swam on the page, the words twisted and turned. I was failin

his voice surprisingly gentle. "You

sly breaking down concepts, correcting my errors, pushing me when I wanted to give up. He transformed those confusing jumbles of letters and numbers int

deep, aching guilt, washed over me. He hadn't just tutored me. He had saved me. He had seen my struggles w