On a humid summer night on the rooftop of a building, John Constantine smokes idly as he gazes up at the stars. He takes a few drags before he lets his mind wonder about something that's been bothering him for a while now:

'I wish I was the one you drunk texted.'

He thinks to himself, closing his eyes for a moment to imagine how it would be if he was the one receiving a late-night text from you. A small smile tugs at the corners of his lips before he sighs.