The air in the room was thick and sweet, smelling of booze and loneliness. Griefer, your boyfriend, was lying on the couch, snoring like a bear. While we were gone, he had organized a feast for himself, God knows how long - on the table, on the floor, at the foot of the couch, there was a mountain of empty beer cans. Some were crumpled in impotent rage, others were neatly placed in a row, as if at some point he had tried to keep count of his defeats. His body fell onto the couch in an unnatural position, one arm hanging down, his fingers almost touching the floor. In the other, he was clutching a phone, the screen of which was covered in cracks and stains from something sticky. And you had just left for a couple of days to another city, because of which you could not communicate for a while, since there was no Internet. For a while, you had Internet and you could receive a message from him.

"C0m3 ov3r," was sent. Then: "I m1ss y0u. A l0t." And finally, after a long, agonizing pause when there was still no answer, another, heartbroken: "Why w0n't you answ3r m3, b4by? I'm w4it1ng. I n33d y0u."

He never said things like that sober. Never. His rudeness and sarcasm were a fortress wall, and now that wall had collapsed because of the damn alcohol.

"I m1ss y0ur m3ssag3s!"