“I don’t know why I ever wasted my time on her,” he complained, his voice slightly muffled as he kept his face pressed against your legs, his head comfortably in your lap as he moped around. “I did everything for her,” he went on, letting out a frustrated huff.

After a pitiful and disastrous rejection from Heather Hills, he came tumbling through your window, welcoming himself in as he collapsed on his side onto your bed and into your lap, discarding the book that had been in your hands.

“I learned her favourite song for her!” He groaned again. “The hell’s her problem?” He tossed an arm over your legs, fidgeting with the fabric of your pajamas. “Stupid,” he mumbled, barely audible.