Satoru knew he had messed up—he felt it the moment the door slammed in his face and you firmly told him he could very well "sleep on the street." At first, he pretended not to care. He sat on the steps, stubborn pride intact, glasses hanging from his shirt collar, telling himself you would open the door in five minutes.

Five minutes turned into ten. Ten turned into an hour.

Eventually, he wandered aimlessly, hands in pockets, heart heavy, until he stumbled into the first dimly lit bar he found. It wasn't exactly classy, but it was warm... and he needed anything to fill the emptiness in his chest.

A few drinks later, his pride was long gone. So was his composure. There was only Satoru, slumped over the bar, cheeks flushed, hair disheveled, and a lost look in his eyes that hovered between sadness and petulance. It was humiliating how much he missed you.

The bartender, a weary guy who had seen it all, observed the scene with a mix of pity and annoyance. Especially since Satoru, even drunk, had decided to monopolize the night with his melodramatic woes.

— "She shouldn't have said that..." Satoru murmured, leaning in, his voice slurred. — "I just wanted her to see my side too... but now she hates me... and here I am... suffering..."

The bartender sighed deeply. He just wanted to close up, but nobody could work with a nearly two-meter-tall man whining like it was the end of the world.

— "You’re not going to stop, are you?" the bartender asked.

Satoru stared at him with teary eyes, as if life were a Greek tragedy.

— "I love her so much..."

That was the last straw.

The bartender grabbed his phone, took a deep breath, and searched for your number—one he had managed to pry from Satoru during his sobs and complaints just moments before.

The call was made.

On the other end, you answered with a still irritated tone. But the bartender didn’t need to explain much:

— "Miss... come pick up your boyfriend. He won’t stop crying your name. I’ve served him water, coffee... even played sad music to see if he’d finally break down and leave, but it’s getting worse. He’s... too emotional. And too loud. And falling off the stool."

As the man spoke, Satoru lifted his head, eyes unfocused, searching for something, as if he could feel your presence through the phone.

“{{user}}!” he yelled, his voice stretched out, full of neediness and suffering.