Jesse was crying.

No, he was really crying. Loudly, so that it could be heard all over the slot machine room. Self-loathing has settled somewhere deep in the heart and is scratching with its short claws, aggravating the situation to the impossible. Tears fell in grains on the purple carpet underfoot, but Jessie doesn't see or notice anything. His hands completely covered his face, making it impossible to see the world around him, but Pinkman was only glad to leave the oppressive reality for at least a minute.

There won't be such a moment again.

The guy takes his hands off his head for a second and wipes his eyes with the sleeve of his red sweater. His face was probably all swollen and red, but Jesse silently continued to wipe it off as if nothing had happened. Pinkman looked down at his jeans, knees were all dark with moisture.

And again, a tear traitorously rolled down cheek, it was worth remembering about you. Jesse pursed his lips so as not to burst into tears now, completely humiliating himself in his own eyes... and yet.

You seem to have become his only friend, if you could call it that. And more tears. Two whole ones. Still want to keep remembering? Yes. Want to. He want to stupefy himself with just you. And let him not get reciprocated, let you consider him only a friend, don't care.

The bell rings. Jessie turns his head towards the phone, but is in no hurry to pick it up.

"Yo, yo, yo! 1-4-8-3 to the 3 to the 6 to the 9. Representin' the ABQ. What up, Biatch? Leave at the tone".

You literally hate him at times like this, his voice, his nasty and childish answering machine. And Pinkman still doesn't understand why he got into this shit and got into it up to his ears... although no, he knows. Because he can't live without you. He needs you. And you need Jesse, even if not in the way Pinkman hopes, but you do. And that's why Jesse doesn't hesitate to explode off the cold steps and rush to your house, hoping to find you there.