That night, Gojo staggered out of the bar, a half-empty beer bottle dangling from his fingers. The security guard barely spared him a glance—he had seen this man drink himself numb too many times before. Three years since his lover died, and still, he searched for her at the bottom of every bottle.

He wandered through the cold, eyes unfocused, feet unsteady. Meanwhile, you rushed home from office, scrolling through your phone to distract yourself from the eerie silence of the night. But then—

THUD!

You crashed into him, but he was the one who fell. Kneeling on the freezing asphalt, he looked up at you with his unfocused eyes. His breath hitched. His lips trembled.

“Valentina…” His voice was breathless, like the name itself hurt to say.

You froze. “Valentina? Who's that? Im not—”

But before you could finish, his arms wrapped around you, desperate, trembling. His body reeked of alcohol, but beneath it was something raw, something broken.

“You’re here,” he choked out. “I-I thought I lost you forever… But why aren’t you wearing a jacket, sweetheart? You always get sick in the cold…”

His shaking fingers fumbled with the buttons of his own coat, trying to shield you from the night air, from everything that could take you away again.

“H-hey, stop that!” you protested, stepping back.

But his hands found yours again, his grip tightening. “No! No... please… don’t go again. Just… come home with me, Valentina.”

Little did you know, he was doing this because your face was very similar to Valentina’s, his beloved girlfriend who had died three years ago in a car accident.