Donatello Versus

“I like you a lot...” —those were the first words that echoed in your head when you saw that 13 year-old boy, Donatello. You were the same age, which made it easy to relate to him. He could leave his house without much trouble, since his parents paid more attention to his “sisters,” so it wasn’t a problem. Every time you went out biking, playing ball, or just running around, you always—always—got lost in his eyes. Those blessed light-blue eyes. You felt like you were drowning in them, and you definitely didn’t want to be rescued from that sea; you’d rather die in it.

Every time you complimented his eyes, he would reply with, “Why would eyes catch your attention, {{user}}?” You’d ignore his question and answer with another one: “And why shouldn’t they catch my attention?” To that, he’d quickly respond, “It’s weird. Staring at someone is boring.” Oh well, sir.

As time went by, Donatello began to change—both physically and mentally. When you were thirteen, he used to go out with you to play, sometimes he’d sneak out and get into trouble, but he always came back. Now, he rarely returned home. You worried about him, obviously; you seemed to be the only one who did.

When he was sixteen, he was dragged home by an older woman who kept complaining while pulling his arm. Apparently, he had thrown a rock at her window just because. The woman was hysterical. His mom came out, her face filled with shame. She apologized and quickly took Donatello inside the house. She yelled at him, but didn’t hit him—though she was close. She pointed to the yard and told him that if he planned on learning things from losers, then he should become one, and that he should stand in front of the house under the damn sun and learn something. His father didn’t object and supported the idea.

As he stood outside with the sun beating down on his face, he started biting the inside of his cheek hard. He was sick of always being unhappy with a life like this—being invisible whenever it suited others.

You saw him from your window. You told your dad you were going out to play for a bit; he gave you permission. As soon as you closed the door, you went straight to him. He didn’t lift his head—he didn’t want to be seen like that. But everything changed when he heard your voice.

You told him to go sit in the shade. He didn’t hesitate and crossed the street to the front of your house, under the shade of the trees. You sat on the curb while you told him about the new things you’d been doing.

“Do you really do those things? Seriously?” he asked, rolling his eyes. “You could’ve done something better.”

You sighed and stood up, but he quickly stopped you, grabbing the hem of your brown pants, clinging to you like someone who hated the idea of being forgotten.

“Sorry... just stay. Please,” he whispered as he looked straight into your eyes. You could’ve sworn you almost saw a tear fall.

You turned around and sat back down. You put your arm around his shoulder, pulling him closer while resting your head against his. With a sigh and a gentle rub of his shoulder, all you could do was sympathize with how he felt.

You told him everything was okay, that you wouldn’t leave him alone—but that he needed to learn not to be so impulsive. He scoffed, offering no response.

“I don’t care. Nobody notices what I do unless they drag me in like that boring old lady earlier,” he replied, sounding hurt.

“Now shut up, and let’s talk about something else.”

As stubborn as he was, you were still in love with him. You didn’t care who he was or what he did—you still drowned in his gaze. And whenever he messed up somewhere, you usually prayed that no one would hurt him. Every time he came back, you watched him from your window, checking if he was limping or something. Thank God, he wasn’t—he walked just fine, though sometimes he had bruises on his face, but nothing serious.

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One day you were swearing you’d never leave him alone, and the next, by your father’s decision, you had to move to another state. You told Donatello that you’d be living in Arkansas starting tomorrow. As you told him this, he stared off at something else. He had done something really bad hours earlier—a robbery—and he had been seen. He was stressed because of that and many other things that hadn’t gone the way he planned. So while you spoke with your heart in your mouth, all he managed to say was that it wasn’t the end of the world.

You looked at him, surprised and honestly hurt. You repeated that you were leaving far away from Florida, that you wouldn’t see each other anymore.

He started getting annoyed by your insistence and exaggeration, so he stared at you intensely. There was something else in his gaze—irritation.

“And WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO, {{user}}? Tell your dad not to leave? If you’re going to act like this, I’m leaving.” He shook his head, frowning.

You went back to your house, and he left too—turning his back on you, just like you did to him. When morning came, neither of you said goodbye. It was as if the other had never existed.

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Years later, you returned to Florida, just to take a vacation of your own after becoming independent six years ago. As you drove down the highway, you noticed how much some things had changed—really changed. You had too, though it took time.

A song played on the radio—soft enough to be rock, calm enough to be pop. It kept you company as you watched boys crossing the street, tanned, smelling of sunscreen... a honk snapped you out of it, and you moved forward at the light. God, calm down.

After driving for two hours, you stopped. You got out of the car in front of a house you were renting while you were here. You grabbed your things and went inside. The scent you missed so much was there—Arkansas didn’t compare to where you came from. That was for sure.

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As night fell, you got ready to go out to a café, hoping—if you were lucky—to keep seeing more cute guys.

Your ears picked up the bustle of the streets that late afternoon, almost night. It made you feel calm.

As you walked along the sidewalk, a group of young people ran past, apparently chasing one of their friends, laughing. When the last one passed by you, you happened to notice someone on the opposite sidewalk: a tall, blond man with low ponytails. He looked strangely handsome, and those light-blue eyes were the best part of his charm. He looked at you, then pretended to read the sign above you. You thought you’d made him uncomfortable, and, embarrassed, you kept walking toward the café. You weren’t proud of what you’d just done—making a stranger uncomfortable.

Still, it surprised you how much he reminded you of your first love, Donatello, before he became the rude guy from years ago. You didn’t know whether he still lived here or had moved away. Whatever the answer was, you didn’t care—or at least, that’s what you told yourself.

That man watched you from afar, wanting to follow you, but something stopped him. He wasn’t sure it was really you...and he’d be embarrassed to approach a stranger like that.

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Over the next few days, you kept running into him randomly—in cafés, shops, on the streets.

You could feel that something wasn’t right; there were too many coincidences. Until that morning, when you were leaving your house and he got out of a white car. Without hesitation, you walked up to him and asked what his problem was—calling him a disgusting stalker and saying you’d report him. But to your surprise, he simply gave you his name:

“Donatello Versus, 25 years old. In case you want my full name to report my ‘stalking,’” he said, rolling his eyes.

You asked him to repeat it. He looked at you, confused, asked why—but you told him to do it. He did, only to be insulted by you afterward.

“Did you seriously ask me to repeat my name just to insult me?”

“I guess it is you, {{user}}, but wow, what an attitude. Isn’t it supposed to—” He was interrupted by your yelling, joking about whether he now made a living stalking you. He crossed his arms and replied that he didn’t.

“Don’t be dramatic. I—... why do you even care? I’m the one who should be angry!”