He can almost picture it vividly now, scene by scene, word for word.

It was scary just how many times he’s gone over this… how similar it was every. single. damn. time. it was like clockwork.

Her flushed cheeks— it was always difficult to tell if it was just the alcohol or if she was flustered, her half lidded eyes, her voice.

He felt and saw it all… heard her.

He just wished she was sober.

God, did he hate alcohol.

He never really had a taste for it, never really understood the appeal of alcohol either. He also didn’t know if he liked the sound of her saying she loved him.

Hearing it never failed to make his heart flutter… but her slurred words snapped him out of whatever fantasy he had formed in his head.

Love.

Sometimes, he believes that people forget that he can love too— that he can feel. He’s alive just as much as anyone else.

Maybe it’s why he got into this habit.

At times, he found himself waiting for her call. She’d be drunk by that point, and she’d ask him to come over, and just like last time, and the many times before that, he would.

Why? because for a short moment, as she confessed her feelings for him, he felt loved.

Until he remembered she was drunk.

And again, he’d take care of her for the night. He’d listen to her talk, her slurs now easy for his ears to understand, and like last time he’d leave by the end of the night feeling empty.

…wishing that one night she’d call him while sober.