I felt truly unsettled about your most recent journal entry. What did you mean about killing everyone you've ever loved? I surely couldn't ask you about it based on the way you responded when I asked about your grandfather.

I studied you from afar for a few days, watching your actions for anything unusual. I tried to never turn my back to you and to know where you were at all times. I watched to see if you were carrying a gun or a knife. Would you strangle me in my sleep? Would you rape me first? Would it be a slow, painful, torturous death?

Every time you tried to speak to me, I gave you quick, curt answers, the way you'd been answering me since I came here.

One evening, you asked if I'd like to come fishing with you the next morning. I was fearful of having you take me out in the woods. If you killed me out in the middle of nowhere, no one would ever find me. At least if you killed me in the cabin, there was a chance someone would eventually discover what you'd done, if they ever found the cabin.

But I was so sick of being indoors, I agreed.

“What if we see another cougar?” I asked. Maybe you would let me die this time, watching the mountain lion eat me alive, getting some sick kind of pleasure out of it.

“I always take a gun with me,” you reminded me.

Great, I couldn't feel any safer about that. What if you turned the gun on me?

I slept fitfully that night, tossing and turning and wondering how long it would be until you decided to do away with me. I decided that, if I came back from the fishing trip alive, I would start keeping a gun or a knife with me at all times. I would have to find a way to work out and get back into shape since I'd been sitting around for a few weeks and I was starting to feel lazy. I could carry wood inside – the bigger armloads, the better, to make my upper body strong. I could do yoga to strengthen my core. I would have to develop an exercise regimen and stick to it if I wanted to be any match against your strength.

We woke up in the morning and you told me to wear thermal underwear and wool socks. You gave me a pair of heavy gloves and a hat, and I wore my own parka. We went to the outer closet and you fetched your pail and a small gun. I watched carefully to see where you placed it. You stuck it inside the waistband of your jeans.

I followed you as we walked along the path you'd made. We walked for quite a long time and I found I was getting out of breath. I definitely had to start working out again, today if possible. We finally came to a clearing and then I heard it – rushing water. About 50 yards ahead was a flat, gray river. It must have been moving swiftly because it hadn't frozen.

Maybe you were planning to push me into the racing water and watch me drift away. Freezing to death and drowning at the same time might be a fairly easy way to die. I was a good swimmer, but I was out of shape, and I remembered from the day I ran away that my muscles literally froze up as I got colder and colder.

You pulled out a pole and you handed me the long net you had brought along. “It's a little easier to catch fish with this. But I can get different kinds by casting further out into the river.”

We approached the bank and you cautioned me to be careful because it was slippery.

“Like you care,” I muttered under my breath.

“What?” You asked in shock, clearly having heard what I said.

“Nothing.”

You dropped it.

I stood and watched the water swiftly traveling past, only inches from my feet. I was shocked that I actually saw fish close to the surface. Despite the speed of the current, the water was still quite clear in that spot. I giggled and laughed when I saw the fish coming close to the surface.

“Don't they know that we're trying to catch them?” I asked.

“Maybe they've never seen a person before,” you suggested.

I thought about how strange it was that they were so trusting. Like me. I had started to trust you too many times, only to find out that you were going to kill me anyway. And the only thing I could do was to watch your every move and try to outsmart you. I probably had a better chance than the fish, but not much.

I finally dropped my net into the water and it wasn't long before two very large fish swam right into it. “I caught some, Zayn!” I shouted in glee, yanking the net out of the water. “Look!”

You grinned in approval and opened the top of the fishing pail for me to dump them in.

“Nice work,” you complimented me.

I forgot for a moment that I was supposed to be terrified of you and I gave you a high five.

We fished a bit more, but we turned back toward the cabin before too long. Regardless of our layers of warmth, we were still getting too cold to stay outside for an extended period of time. Besides, we had four fish with the two that you had caught. That was plenty to last us for a few days.

When we arrived at the cabin, I decided to watch you clean the fish. I wanted to see how adept you were with the knife. It turns out you were very good at scaling and gutting the fish and I guessed you could have gutted me quite easily too, if the mood struck you.

I took a nap after you cleaned the fish, feeling quite exhausted from the lack of sleep and the long trek to your fishing spot. I didn't wake up until it was almost dark, and I smelled fish frying downstairs. I was hungry, but I didn't want to spend any more time with you than necessary. However, my stomach won out and I went downstairs and I was greeted by your winning smile.

“Hungry?”

I nodded.

You dished up some fish onto two tin plates and then heaped some rice next to it. You pulled out a bag of dried mangoes from the cupboard and announced, “We have to make sure we're getting Vitamin C.”

I chuckled and thought that comment made you seem very unlike a cold-blooded killer.

We sat at the bar in the kitchen and ate rather quietly.

“River?”

“Yes.”

“Is something wrong?” You inquired.

“What do you mean?”

“You've been acting different for the past few days. Always watching me, not talking as much as you usually do. I thought maybe you were starting to trust me again, and then you pulled away.”

I wasn't sure what to say. I wasn't sure whether I should tell you what I'd been thinking about since I read the last journal entry. I finally decided what to do. I went to retrieve your journal and brought it back, opening to the entry from November 15.

“What does this mean?” I asked, pointing to your last sentence, saying you've killed everyone you've ever loved.

You stared at the entry for a long time. I was disturbed by the fact that you didn't defend yourself or try to explain it right away.

“You wouldn't understand,” you said.

“Try me,” I replied quickly.

“No, you would never understand what I've been through,” you insisted.

“So, that makes it okay to kill people?” I demanded.

"River," you said sarcastically. "I didn't kill anyone." I breathed a sigh of relief and then you said, "But it's still my fault that they're dead.”

“Why do you say that?” I pressed.

And then you yelled. “I'm telling you, River, you wouldn't understand! Now, drop it!”

“No, Zayn, I'm not going to drop it!” I shouted back at you. “Do you see how unfair this is? You seem to know everything about me, but you don't want to tell me anything about your own life!”

“You would hate me if you knew what I'd done,” you said.

“You don't know that.”

“Yes, I do!” You shouted. “No one could ever love me!!!” You ended with a roar and stormed out of the cabin without your coat on. I knew you'd be back in within minutes of being exposed to the biting cold.

I started to clean up dinner, throwing the food remains into the fire.

You came back inside and I went straight to you and dragged you by the hand to sit down in front of the fire. I rubbed your bare hands the way you had done when I almost froze to death. You weren't nearly as cold as I had been, but just a few minutes in these temperatures could cause frostbite on exposed skin. Your hands looked all right, but I tried to warm them quickly nonetheless.

“Zayn, please tell me what happened. Please. I think I deserve that much.”

You looked as if you were deep in thought.

I quietly urged you, “please.”

You stared into the fire and spoke in a flat tone of voice. “My dad killed my mum.”

I didn't even try to stop the tears that flooded my eyes. “Oh Zayn, I'm so sorry, that must have been horrible.”

You continued speaking. “Then he killed himself.”

And suddenly, I understood how broken you were. How your obsessive need for someone to love and to have someone love you in return was fueled by your tragic past.

“Zayn,” I whispered, and then I pulled you gently toward me, cradling your head against my chest and wrapping my other arm around your back.

You willingly let me hold you, but at first you remained stiff. Slowly, I felt you relax against me. And then I felt your body quivering. You slowly looped your arms around me and the next thing I knew, you were sobbing, your tears soaking the front of my shirt. I consoled you the way you did for me after the cougar attack. I stroked your hair and shushed you, feeling awful for your loss. I cried along with you, feeling your grief with you, the grief you had undoubtedly stored up for all the years since your parents' death.

You cried for a long, long time, and I held you for just as long.

Your cries finally subsided and you pulled away and looked into my eyes. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome, Zayn.” And I meant it.

“Why do you think it was your fault?” I asked a bit later.

You looked at me, your eyes weary from crying, and you said, “I will tell you everything, but no more tonight, please.” Your please sounded almost as if I'd been torturing you and you wanted some relief before having to undergo another round of punishment.

We got ready for bed quietly. You always waited for me to go to bed first so that you could stoke up the fire and turn out the lights. But tonight, instead of going to my room, I sat on your bed and waited for you.

You looked at me and spoke your signature line: “All right, love?”

“Yeah, I was just thinking that, if the offer is still open, I would sleep next to you tonight. You know, to preserve body heat.” Of course, my thinking went much deeper than that, but I didn't want to tell you that. I wanted to hold you. I wondered if anyone had ever held you since your parents died. Well, I knew you had a grandfather, but I didn't know how nurturing he was. From everything I knew of you thus far, you were a loner. I wanted to be able to give you something that no one should have to go without – compassion.

You just nodded and we both slid under the pile of blankets. I laid on my back for a while, wondering how to proceed. I eventually decided to roll over to where I was facing you and I draped my arm across your shoulder, pulling you so that you would turn towards me. You did so willingly and I pulled you closer encouraging you to put your head against my shoulder. You fell asleep while I rubbed your back and stroked your hair, and for the first time in a long time, I felt wonderfully content.

The next morning, I woke up with your arm draped over me and it felt nice to be close to you.

I remembered an old saying: “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”

I laid there for a long time, wondering if you were a friend or an enemy. I had figured out that you didn't actually kill your parents, so that gave me some relief. But still, the wounds of your past were so deep, and they hadn't healed properly, so I wasn't quite sure of the mental and emotional state they had left you in. You never seemed violent, although you had yelled a few times. I'd never been very afraid of you - irritated, frustrated, annoyed and generally pissed off, yes, but not really afraid.

But I wondered if I should be.

I watched as you slept and I listened to your breathing, deep and low. Your eyelashes were so long, your perfectly shaped lips were so soft and pink, and the stubble on your jaw made you look grown up, but not fearful.

How could someone so beautiful be capable of violence? Or any of this, really?

You gradually woke up and I stroked your hair until you opened your eyes. I wanted you to know that I had made my final decision – I wasn't afraid of you.

You smiled as my fingers slipped through your hair.

Then I asked, “why do you think it was your fault that your parents died?”

The smile left your face. “It just was. I was such a naughty little boy.” The way you said that sounded a little creepy, like you were a child speaking with a man's voice.

“But you didn't kill your parents....”

“I was playing with my football in the house. I loved all kinds of sports and I was really good. When I was ten, I wanted to try out for the school's team, so I was practicing my skills every chance I got. I was dribbling and kicking my ball while I was getting a snack inside the house. I knew it was against the rules, but I really wanted to make the team.”

You took a deep breath and I encouraged you to keep going by rubbing your back.

“I lost control of the ball and it knocked down expensive painting that my dad had bought for my mum. The frame broke and the painting was destroyed. My dad came racing out of his bedroom, and I could see that he'd been drinking again. I started telling him that I would pay for the painting or work it off and that I would never, ever play ball in the house again, but he grabbed me and threw me against the kitchen door.”

I gasped at the description of your alcoholic father ready to beat you and I wasn't sure if I wanted to hear more, but you kept going.

“My mum came in just then and tried to get between my dad and me, but my dad pushed her out of the way and grabbed me again. She pushed back in between us and then my dad grabbed her and threw her really hard against the kitchen door. It fell open and she fell down the concrete steps outside our house.”

You started choking up at that point and I tried to tell you that you didn't have to finish, but I think you just had to get it all out.

“I was crying hysterically because my mom wasn't moving. I was screaming for my dad to call an ambulance, but he just stood there. He walked away slowly and I thought he was going to get the phone. But he didn't come right back. I was sitting next to my mum and there was blood everywhere, but I kept telling her to wake up and that she would be okay. Then I heard it.”

And you started sobbing again.

“Heard what?” I asked gently.

“The gunshot.”

I swallowed the sick feeling in my throat and you continued. “I went to find my dad and he had gone to his room and shot himself instead of calling for help for my mum.”

You let yourself cry some more before going on with the story. But your cries didn't seem as desperate as they had been last night.

When you had collected yourself again, you told me that your grandfather had Alzheimer's disease and that he lived with your family when your parents died. You somehow convinced the authorities that he was capable of caring for you, so you weren't shipped off to a foster home or an orphanage. Then you confided that you never told your grandfather about your parents' death. If he ever asked about them, which wasn't very often, you told them they were out somewhere.

“Zayn, I am so, so sorry that those terrible things happened to you, but none of that was your fault. You didn't do anything wrong.”

“I shouldn't have been playing ball in the house,” you said.

“Your father was an alcoholic and he killed your mother, not you! And then, like a coward, he killed himself instead of facing the consequences! You were just a child, you can't possibly think you were responsible for their deaths!”

“If I hadn't broken the painting, my mum would still be alive.”

“You don't know that, Zayn. Maybe that was the day your dad was going to snap anyway. Or maybe it would have been another day. Please, please don't blame yourself.”

“I...I have to. It was my fault.”

You were so mature, so responsible, but what I saw that morning was a scared and hurt little boy trapped in a man's body, never having dealt with the trauma of witnessing your parents' violent deaths. You needed help. You needed to work through this somehow and learn not to blame yourself.

You were crying again and I couldn't take anymore. I hated to see so much hurt in one person. I was desperate to make you stop, so I did what instinctively came to me.

“Please stop crying,” I said, wiping a tear from your cheek and then kissing it.

You looked at me, a little bit stunned.

I kissed the other cheek and wiped away another tear.

You watched me like a hawk. And then I kissed your lips. The surprise wore off quickly and you kissed me back, moving your lips tenderly along with mine. I pushed up on my elbow and leaned more directly over you, using my other hand to cup your cheek and wipe away your tears.

When I ended the kiss, you kept looking at me like you couldn't believe that had just happened. I couldn't believe it either, to be honest. I mean, just the day before, I was afraid you were going to kill me. But I didn't think that anymore.

“I know you didn't mean that,” you said in a whisper.

I'm pretty sure I surprised you when I responded, “I did meant that, Zayn. I wanted to kiss you.”

You smiled and hugged me and then we got up to make breakfast.

After breakfast, I picked up your journal to start reading again. I was distracted, though, by the memory of kissing you. What I had said was true – I had wanted to kiss you, and I wanted to kiss you again. But you were vulnerable, delicate. I didn't want to lead you on, and I didn't want to hurt you.

I was beginning to like you, for sure. I enjoyed your company. You were so gentle and kind and you were starting to be more at ease with me. But you wanted me to love you, and I certainly didn't love you yet, at least not the way you wanted me to.

I continued to read about you following me. As I read through the rest of 2012, I remembered that was when I started to suspect that someone was watching me. At first, I wasn't really afraid, like I thought you were going to hurt me. I actually felt a little bit flattered, thinking of someone watching me. But then I started to wonder if I was just delusional. I mean, I had no real proof that I had a secret admirer.

It turned out you were more real than I ever imagined.