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In my childhood days, I used to believe that some people were angels in human form, sent to mend and care for us. I thought so because certain people's presence had this calming effect on me, and I could feel their love and care, almost as if they had been watching over me.

Even though I was just a boy back then, I couldn't help asking myself if those people had been placed there on purpose — to guide and support me through my early years' trials and tribulations. Their kindness and compassion made me feel safe, providing comfort when I needed it the most, especially after my mother died. I was twelve years old then, and I had felt the goodness of the world closing in on me, leaving me overwhelmed with uncertainty, fear, and a sense of isolation. I found myself wondering what would happen next, and if things would continue to spiral out of control. I'd been overwhelmed with so much fear, feeling like a huge piece of my heart had been torn away unexpectedly.

But amidst the struggle, the world's goodness never forgot about me. After my mother's death, I quickly found myself surrounded by a network of caring individuals who'd selflessly chosen to be there for me in my darkest hour. Their presence in my life had been a lifeline, pulling me out of despair and offering comfort in my greatest time of need. It was those people's presence, words of comfort, and random acts of kindness that ultimately lifted my spirits. I was grateful for all the support and understanding I'd received. It made me realize that I wasn't alone in my sorrow. And so, despite every single challenge I'd faced back then and later, I somehow managed to hold onto my belief in the inherent benevolent nature of this universe.

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Descending the spiral stairwell now, at almost twenty years of age, my path unexpectedly crossed with my next-door neighbor, Mads. Seeing him here so suddenly made my heart skip a beat — or two. It always did. I wished it didn't.

He was sporting freshly cut dark side-part hair with a disconnected undercut. His eyes were warm and compelling, adding light to his angular face. I had looked at that face a thousand times. I had no right to look at it the way I did. I looked anyway.

All the cycling and exercise he had done in the past months was paying off, and now he was rather lean and toned, wearing a geometric utility pocket shirt, a light teal jacket on top, and grey chinos. I noticed everything. I wished I didn't. I wished I could just see him as a friend, the way I was supposed to. But I couldn't. I had tried. I had failed.

I watched him in silence for a few seconds before he realized my presence. Our eyes met briefly, and we nodded, exchanging a silent acknowledgment before continuing on our separate paths. I felt his gaze on my back as I walked away. I didn't turn around. I wanted to. I shouldn't want to. I turned around anyway — but only after I reached the corner, when he couldn't see me anymore. Just to watch him leave. Just to hold onto something I had no right to hold onto.

I was going to college. He was going to his job — the humble work of a ticket seller at the Hans Christian Andersen Museum. He deserved more. He deserved everything. I wanted to be the one to give it to him. And then I hated myself for wanting that, because wanting wasn't my place. He hadn't asked for my wanting. He hadn't done anything to earn it except be kind. Be good. Be there.

Since I moved into this tenement with my mother, he had been my neighbor and a dear friend. Our bond had been naturally forged through years of shared experiences, various problems, and bouts of occasional mischief. From impromptu backyard adventures to late-night conversations in the courtyard, Mads had been a reliable companion who had stood by me through the highs and lows. Our friendship had grown and evolved over the years, rooted in deep understanding and mutual respect that had stood the test of time.

And all that was for a good reason. Being four years my senior, Mads had always seemed like the epitome of maturity and responsibility. I looked up to him. I trusted him. I loved him. Not the way I was supposed to. Not the way a friend loves a friend. The other way. The way that would ruin everything if he ever found out.

His parents were struggling financially, but he never let hardships make him a mean person. No, he behaved with dignity and grace at all times, never allowing his circumstances to dim his spirit. I admired him for that. I resented him for that too, because his goodness made my wanting feel even worse. He was so good. And I was so greedy. He gave me everything. Why wasn't it enough? Why did I still want more?

My mother had recognized that he was trustworthy early on and offered him the opportunity to be my tutor, a role he had embraced wholeheartedly and that only contributed to our bond growing. It was under his guidance — before and after her death — that I began excelling academically and learned valuable life lessons beyond the pages of textbooks. Mads's patience, wisdom, and support had helped shape me into the person I had become, instilling in me a sense of resilience and determination.

And I had repaid him by falling in love with him. By needing him so desperately that I couldn't breathe sometimes. By calling him instead of an ambulance when I was bleeding out in a crashed car, because in my worst moment, the only person I wanted was the person I was supposed to see as a brother. I would never forget the look on his face when he pulled me out of that car. The fear. The panic. The way his hands shook. He didn't say "I love you." He didn't have to. I saw it. And I have pretended not to see it ever since, because if I admitted what I saw, I would have to do something about it. And I couldn't. I couldn't risk him. I couldn't risk us.

Among other positive qualities, what had truly endeared Mads to me was his unwavering goodness, honesty, and tireless dedication to always giving his best. He was a shining example of human integrity. I wished I could be more like him. I wished I could just be grateful for what I had, and not want what I couldn't have.

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After our brief meeting that morning, I couldn't wait to catch up with him after classes. Later, he came over to visit me. I let him into my apartment, and he mentioned that he wanted to give painting classes in the attic of our tenement.

"Great idea! The attic feels like the perfect space for it," I said. I was already imagining us up there together. Alone. I shouldn't have been imagining that. I imagined it anyway.

"Thanks," Mads replied with enthusiasm, a smile lighting up his face. That smile. Every time he aimed it at me, I forgot how to breathe. "I've been thinking about sharing my passion for art with others for a while now."

"I'm sure people would love to learn from you," I said. I knew firsthand what a great teacher he was. I also knew that I would sign up for his classes just to be near him. Even if I already knew how to paint. Even if that made me pathetic.

"Thanks. I really hope it works out. Renting the attic won't be free, unfortunately." Mads's smile tightened slightly. "Still, I got a nice discount from the Christensens, so I can't complain. It was so kind of her. I'm grateful."

"Fantastic. I'm glad things are working out for you from the start. I have no doubt you'll make it a success," I told him. I meant it. I needed him to succeed. I needed him to stay. If he left this tenement, I didn't know who I would be. That was a terrible thing to feel. I felt it anyway.

"When do you plan to start?" I asked.

"I'm thinking of doing it next month. I'll need some time to set up the space and gather materials first," Mads explained.

That was so like him — think things through first, then act. I admired that about him. I also wished, sometimes, that he would stop thinking. That he would just act. On me. On us. But he never would. Because he didn't feel the same way. He couldn't. He was good. I was just... greedy.

"Well, let me know if you need help," I offered. "I can lend you a hand with the cleaning so you can begin faster." It wasn't selfless. Nothing I did for him was selfless anymore. I just wanted to be alone with him. In the attic. Away from everyone else. I knew that was wrong. I offered anyway.