It's three in the morning, having ambivalent feelings about your boyfriend—Scaramouche leaving so oftenly just for him to end up being in the influence of alchohol.

Even after he had gone, you could still feel him in your pillows through the sweet profilic sillage left by his cologne.

It'd be always him who'd miss your calls; not until this night, your phone vibrates next to you as avert your gaze to it. A call from Scaramouche, who was once again, in the influence of alchohol.