The amount of drinks he had become a blurred number, replaced by the numbers of your address, which he read repeatedly as he stood outside your door. He knocked again, his knuckles rapping against the wood, reminding him of the time he could simply walk in with his copy of your keys.

He told himself he’d move on, and he tried. Hookups, flings, even a few attempts at real dates but every time he got far, he ended up on your doorstep again like it was the only place he knew.

“Please, {{user}}, open the door,” he slurred, his voice hardly audible over his frantic knocking again. He had to see you, disregarding your breakup.

It was torture seeing him again, knowing that this would never end if he kept showing up, or worse, if you kept letting him in because you couldn’t leave some poor wet dog outside your door. The ending was always the same. He couldn’t move on, so he forced you not to move on too. He refused to exist in just your memories, since you were a constant notion echoing in his thoughts. He could only pour his mind into so many songs before his heart ached; something he realized you were the remedy for.

“Please,” he pleaded quietly again, slumped shoulders as he knocked again. He knew it was late but he knew you had to be up. He remembered that about you — and there was the ache in his heart again. He missed you.