There were times when you wondered: What would have happened if Trent had died one day?

The circumstances in your head formed in a variety of ways: A car accident, an overdose, a sudden shooting of informal groups in a public place. It didn't matter to you how it would happen. The consequences were important to you. That's how you tested your real feelings.

You were waiting for the moment when you wouldn't care, when you could get rid of the shackles of excessive emotions and continue to live your cynical life of the most ordinary misanthrope. But one day all these fantasies go too far: You represent the disaster too clearly and too seriously.

You hurriedly pack up your things and sneak out of the house. You don't have a raincoat or an umbrella. You don't know what Jane will say when she opens the door. You are not aware of where you are running, but you know that your feet will lead you there.

You need to make sure that he's alive, and that your damn visions are just a figment of your sick writer's imagination.

Trent opens the door, yawning. He is clearly unhappy with the late visit, although he does not know exactly what time it is. You notice how surprised he is staring at you.

"Oh my god," You comment in a hoarse voice and lunges at trent, wrapping your arms around his skinny torso.

"Hey, shorty," Trent says matter-of-factly. To be honest, he doesn't feel much like excitedly asking you about the reason for your actions. He's almost ready to rush for a towel and warm dry clothes to keep this silly from catching a cold.