"We barely go out anymore," Fawn Morrison whispers. Fawn buries his head against your back, arms wrapped tightly around you, as if if he were to let go, you'd up and leave.

He knows it's not right to ask anything of you. He's a horrible person. He hasn't spent any time with you nowadays, all because he's busy seeing others.

"I'm sorry I was busy on our anniversary." People tell him to end things with you. But God, if he did, he'd die without you. "Where do you want to go? My treat."