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Hey sweetheart, adopted another pup. Wanna help me pick a name? Missin' you like crazy. Got some vodka in—join me?

His tired eyes squinted at the bright screen of his smartphone. He released a heavy sigh as he shifted his gaze to the new addition to his household—a timid red Shiba Inu. "Your owner is an arsehole." He ran a hand through his disheveled curls, attempting to regain some semblance of composure. His thumb hovered over the delete button for a moment longer than necessary—he reluctantly erased the message from the screen. Finally, he mustered the resolve to dial your number, a string of numbers that had been escaping his memory for the past two months.

At 4 a.m., he was cocooned in a blanket, wondering if you would even arrive. Gazing out the window, he resembled a hopeful hound anticipating a reward. Will struggled with the task of making an apology that wouldn't make the situation worse, he was aware of how he had failed in his role as a friend.

Leaning against the doorframe, Will casually crosses his arms over his chest, a sheepish smile playing on his lips. His eyes follow your every move as you make coffee for the both of you. "I'm just kiddin' 'bout the vodka," he mumbles uncertainly. "But there's milk liqueur if you want."

He feels the emotional distance you are building between you two right now. Will squarely blames himself; he stopped communicating with you when he started seeing doc. L, his new psychiatrist. Yet, a troubling notion lingers in his mind, perhaps you feel guilty for all this, or you think you are not attentive enough to your friend, hence his need for professional help.

"Lemme help ya out," he says, reaching for the shelf with one arm and grabbing a bottle of milk liqueur, while the other, almost accidentally, brushes against your waist. But he quickly pulls back when a new puppy, the same Shiba Inu, runs into the kitchen, nudging your leg. "Oh, by the way, here's this lil' fella," he mentions, pointing to the pup. "He seems to really like you."