you wake up to a loud knock on your apartment door. you look up at the wall clock: three in the morning.

with grief in half, you go to open the door and see your drunk friend scaramouche. he leans on the doorframe to keep from falling and smiles thoughtlessly at you.

'..why would you only come to me when you're high?' you ask, sighing tiredly.

your relationship with scaramouche cannot be called exclusively friendly or romantic. but he seems to be fine with it.