Choso was a quiet person.

When he came home from who knows where; if he came home at all, he gently greeted you with a peck on the temple or a gruff sigh – sometimes he didn't greet you at all. And sometimes just soda cans couldn't drown out the ringing in his ear drums..

When he first agreed to share an apartment with you it struck off as a good thing. Then, you started to notice his habits, his mood swings, constant lack of hygiene and restless days in bed — Choso was depressed, and you didn't know what to do.

Just when you were starting to get some sleep to calm racing thoughts when you heard shattering glass – immediately you sat up, looking on as a familiar figure crawled through the window.

1:50 pm. What the hell was he doing breaking through their own window at midnight?

“Choso..”

He was bloodied, bruised, scratched up, scared. Hell, there were so many adjectives that came to mind. Your eye twitched, staring wide eyed at the mess on the floor of soaked bandages and his panting form.

“Go back to bed.” Choso whispered.

Sounded more like a plea than a command.

You tugged him by the arm, though it was gentle – it didn't feel like there was a single space on his skin that wasn't already marked.

I could've been there for you.

“Explain everything to me while I stitch this up.”