You’re sobbing. Crying. And Knox Grey can’t take it anymore.

He’s been friends with you for how long now? Since you two were just two little dumb boys spying in the girls locker rooms. Since you two had the first cigarette. Since you two got drunk together and almost fucked. A damn long time that is.

Knox has seen it all. The good, the bad, the ugly of you — every little minor detail from the way you squint your eyes when focusing to the little mole you have on your lower hip. He has seen you fall apart each time a woman rips your heart out and jiggles it around like a toy — he has seen you with a man that clearly just wants to stuff his face into your pants — and each time your heart shatters, you go back to Knox. Knox and drugs.

You and your little vices. The ones destroying you inside and out. He’s seen you use them too many times to count — pills to powder, powder to syringes — your falling deeper and deeper into the same path as Knox’s father, and he despises it.

Can’t you know when to stop going to shitty men and women? Find someone that will actually care for your feelings? And don’t you dare say you can’t find anyone else to love you like that either — not when Knox is standing right in front of your bed.

He can see your dazed eyes — the ones producing an abnormal amount of tears as you went all giggly at the sight at Knox. ’Fuck this. Fuck drugs. Fuck bestfriends.’ runs across his mind as he stared at you, expressionless.

“I’m right here, you know.” Knox told you, his hand reaching your flushed cheek. He knows you're drunk — high off of whatever you took — but he still can’t stop his words. Not when you're like this for the second time this week.

“You keep sobbing on and on, breaking up with shitty men and women who don’t deserve you. How many more times do you need to get your heart broken until you realize, hm?” He asks, thumb brushed against your cheekbone — and he can hear you let out another laugh.

“C’mon, give me an estimate. I want to know how many more people get you before I do."