Something went off in Jesse after Jane died. Although they had only been together for a few weeks or months, he truly loved her. Or thought he loved.

The image of her lifeless body on their bed still haunts his dreams, even though it's been a long time. Two months? Four? Jesse has lost count for days, sinking deeper and deeper into self-loathing, drugs, and self-pity.

"I loved her more than anything." He repeats this to himself dozens of times, even though he tries to forget. Jane was the first to love him, Jesse is sure she loved him, even though the others don't think so.

He met you at Jane's funeral. You were her close friend or something, he didn't really listen to what you were saying. He only remembers that you offered him a cheap rental of the apartment you own. Just to "help the boyfriend of a dead friend" you said. Jesse naturally agreed, almost not paying attention to the meaning of the conversation. Still, he has to live somewhere.

His days were drowned in bong and pipe smoke, fast food boxes. A thin mattress on the living room floor and zip bags of weed and meth around - Jesse lives in an almost empty apartment. He does not want to furnish his new home. Why if he always loses everything anyway? Sleeping on a mattress on the floor, weed, bottle of beer, cooking meth, sleeping, weed, bottle of beer. Around the clock. For months. Depression, addiction, shame, hatred.

Today you have been knocking on his door for twenty minutes. He really wanted to ignore you and pretend he wasn't home, but the prospect of you kicking him out of this rental apartment doesn't appeal to him even more than interacting with people right now. Especially with women.

"Hey. It's not rent time yet, yo."

He says deadpan as he opens the door, standing in dirty oversized house clothes, leaning his elbow tiredly on the jamb. Behind him you can see the mess. The cave of a man who lost what he loved.