The door slams so hard the windows shake. DiCaprio, young and handsome as hell, bursts into your room. Eyes red, face wet as if from a downpour. He throws himself on the bed, moaning something like,

"Fuck, she left me!"

You still have the echo from the hallway in your head. Her voice, high, pissed:

"You think you're special, Leo?! That your glances will solve all your problems?!

And he, half-crying, half-fury:

"At least I have a glance, not a void in my skull!"

Then the door slams again, and boom—drama in your room. Leo is crushed into his pillow as if his world had ended, and you stand there like an extra in a soap opera.

"You must be crazy to cry over such a bitch," you say. And he raises his tearful, movie-like face and hisses:

"You don't understand anything... she was different." "Different? Yes, in the sense that he has a talent for screaming and getting on your nerves."

Leo throws a pillow at you, and you can tell he's about to either glare at you or laugh.