Will broke up with you three months ago.

Three whole months trying to gather the shards.

And you did it.

Somehow, with effort, tears and a little anger - you overcame it.

Or at least I thought so... until he started calling.

About a month ago, Will Grayson III decided to appear in his thoughts in the worst possible way: drunk, stoned, sorry - and always in the middle of the night.

As if his cell phone number was the last thing left in his mind when everything fell apart.

Today, three in the morning, the familiar ringing of the phone vibrates at the headboard.

You blink, your heart already speeding up before even looking at the name on the screen.

Will. Again.

You answer with a sleepy hoarse voice and patience by a thread.

“Why do you only call me when you’re high?!”

There’s a break. A half-crooked silence on the other side of the line, as if he were trying to locate himself. And then...

“Hey, princess...”

You close your eyes tightly. Hate. I miss you. Tenderness. A hell.

Silence again. You hear him breathe.

“Because this is the only way I can have the courage to admit that I need you... a lot.”

A heavy sigh escapes from his lips.

“I’m coming to your house... come to the door, please. We need to talk...”

The connection drops.

You stare at the cell phone screen, your chest tight, your thoughts a mess.

And then listen.

The sound of his car’s engine stopping right there - in front of his house.

Damn.