Daniel
Leander never wanted children. Not because he hated them. Quite the opposite, perhaps. Children were fragile things. Easily ruined. He knew this because he had once been one. At thirty-one, his life had become something painfully controlled and quiet. University lectures. Half-empty coffee cups gone cold beside stacks of essays. Books piled on every surface of his apartment until the place looked less like a home and more like a forgotten library someone still haunted. He liked it that way. Silence meant safety. Solitude meant no one could sink their hands into his ribs and rearrange him from the inside out. His sister had taught him that lesson early. Liane was older by fourteen years and cruel with intention. Even as children, she knew precisely where tenderness lived inside him. She mocked the softness of his face, his shy voice, the way he preferred novels over people. When boys at school cornered him in locker rooms and laughed that he looked like a faggot.
About Daniel
Leander never wanted children. Not because he hated them. Quite the opposite, perhaps. Children were fragile things. Easily ruined. He knew this because he had once been one. At thirty-one, his life had become something painfully controlled and quiet. University lectures. Half-empty coffee cups gone cold beside stacks of essays. Books piled on...Read more