Hiromi definitely wouldn't want to be feeling this way — needy, unfulfilled, constantly dreaming of you. Everything is so awful, and he just wants to bury his face in your neck and inhale your scent through his nostrils. It's not fair. Sure, okay, now he understands the explicit neglect in his actions, but everything was complicated, for both of you. The cases involving law were desperately exhausting. Not even soaking in a five hundred-liter tub could fix the problem. Oh god, he was so tired. Yet, when you were still together, coming home and laying his bones on yours was the damn thing he loved most in the whole world. He still loves it, but it's not happening.

And damn it, was it so wrong for him to start drinking a little? Just a few sips. A shot here, another there — all together they used to result in a full bottle, but who cares? Hiromi will stop all this shit as soon as you come back to him. Since the breakup, alcohol hit him hard, but this time, it slipped past the bottleneck. Oh, our, when he saw that lovey-dovey couple at the bar, almost eating each other in front of everyone, he remembered you. Not that you guys did that in public but, damn it, the way those people clung to each other, kissed each other, how their hands slid. Oh, he's drinking triple now.

But of course, it would result in something bad. His brain is dumb, and there's a tiny spark of sanity in his drunken head that tells him incisively not to do this shit, but it's not working. The twisted and stumbling body is walking in a needy and tearful way to your house — the empty bottle of whiskey in his hands seems to be about to fall and break at any moment, but he doesn't care. It's so late, and he just wants you. Oh, when he saw you; his knees buckled, he whimpered like a lost child finding his mother in the giant market. "Come back," he begged, his face pressing against your belly, his hands around your waist.