I was waiting for the rain to stop. Huddling in a phone booth outside an East End tube station, I had wrapped both arms tightly around myself as the last of a roll-up cigarette burned away between my lips. I had rolled it before the rain started.

It was half past midnight. I had been at a mate's all evening, drinking, to celebrate my 21th birthday. He'd tied a piece of red string around a can of lager to mark the occasion. Apart from that, it was just like any other day, really. I didn't care much. It's just one of those things, right? When you're a kid, birthdays are really important. Then you grow up and they're no different from any other bloody day. I shivered in the phone booth.

A girl in a short skirt and high heels walked past me, holding a childish, pink umbrella above her head. At first, I thought she was talking to herself, and then I noticed the headset. Bloody annoying things, those.

It was a Tuesday, so there weren't many people around. Just the odd taxicab driving past on the rainy street. And that girl. And then you.

You and him.

You were running towards the station. God knows where you came from. Some club, I expect. You were first, holding his hand, pulling him along. You were both laughing, even as you were soaking wet from the rain. A few feet before the station you let go of him and ran a bit faster to get under cover. He followed, caught up with you, pulled you in for a hug and kissed you.

I spat out the end of my roll-up at the wet ground. My eyes were glued to you and your friend. Was he your boyfriend or just someone more random? I couldn't hear what you were saying, you were too far away and the rain was making a lot of noise.

A smile.

Your dripping hair.

He kissed your lips again. Mouth closed this time.

I was holding my breath.

You broke apart and he got something from his pocket. A travel card. He went through the gates. You didn't go along. You looked after him for a few moments. Waved. I couldn't see him anymore. When you couldn't see him either, you stopped smiling and turned back towards the street, the rain, and the darkness.

You looked up towards the night sky, as if you'd be able to tell whether it was going to stop raining soon, and then you left. Past the phone booth where I was still shivering. A few steps down the street and into the darkness. There were barely any lights here. The only real source of light was the light from the tube station.

I'd love to tell you that it was a deliberate decision, but it wasn't. Something just snapped in me. I saw you getting away, so quick as hell I got out from the phone booth and took a few speedy steps to catch up with you.

Oi, mate.

You turned around.

The only thing I could think when my fist hit your face was that you were wet and cold.

I shook my hand, to shake off the pain, as you doubled over and put your hand to your nose. Yeah, you were bleeding. Then you looked up at me. This close it didn't matter that it was dark, I could still see you clearly.

Please.

Why did you have to stay and plead with me? You should've just run off. I took a step closer to you and put my fist in your guts instead. You threw up on the wet pavement. I could smell it. This time you made a move away from me.

Fucking faggot.

What did I want?

I didn't want shit from you, you fucking faggot.

I think you were crying. It hurt me so bad. I think I was crying, too.

When you fell to the ground, I finally came to my senses and ran the fuck away from you. I ran all the way back home. When I turned on the lights in my flat, I noticed I had your blood on my jacket. On my hands. Specks of your vomit on my shoes. A spot of blood on my knee, but I think that was mine, from a fall on my way home.

That night was fucked. I was in my bed, underneath the blankets, foetal position, crying, laughing, pressing my hands to my mouth as I thought I'd be sick. I was sweating. Freezing. Masturbating. Mixing the semen with your blood, still on my hands, and my tears and sweat. I must've fallen asleep at some point, because I remember how it suddenly was sunny and I had a headache, back pains and a fucking mess on my stomach.

I kicked off the blankets and got up. Showered. Sat down in front of the telly, still in my towel and my hair dripping wet. Flipped over to the news by accident. A reporter, a woman in her late 20's, was standing outside that tube station.

…brutal attack on 27-year-old Gregory Allen last night…in hospital…not life-threatening, but very serious…hate crime…

It wasn't a fucking hate crime. I don't hate you. I've loved you since I first saw you. I just…

I just can't.