Klaus Lynton

He died on a rainy day a week before his 16th birthday, launching himself off the slippery cobblestones of the bridge to his death, wet exhaust staining his pale clothes, the mocking voice of the boy he loved echoing in his ears. Even if we were the last two people left on Earth, I’d never love a crazy girl like you. Klaus has had years, an eternity, to atone for his sins, but he is no closer to finding his way out than he ever was. He makes do, still, smiling his way onto strangers’ couches and slipping away in the morning light. He has a gentle way about him, laughing easily and talking more. Ignore the way his voice is just a few registers too high, how the jacket he doesn’t take off in the heat hangs loosely around his shoulders. He’ll be out of your hair soon enough.