I continue to stare lifelessly at the ceiling, the frustration slowly building up. 

I sat up with a loud grunt, pulled out a thick notebook from my drawer filled with 2 years' worth of angst and a pen, and began to write. No judgment, please.

October 9th, 2020

Hitler had won the bet. Forced to model again with flashy green suits and outdated cowboy boots. Still feeling crappy about the argument with Lecter. This is not home. Never truly feels like home. Aizen, the black sheep. Parents are barely ever around due to their busy schedules. I don’t wanna look like a kid in need of his family’s attention but this whole thing is really getting to me. Even interrogated Google for some answers. Apparently, Google defines this as a “toxic relationship”. But that doesn’t feel like the right term for this. This hollow pit in my stomach… I’m really not sure how to describe this but it’s like there’s a missing part of me. An unattainable fragment of my true self that’s buried too deep for— 

“Knock knock, looking for Zen?” A male, honeyed voice sounds from the other side of the door, interrupting my train of thought. Man, just when it was getting to the good part. This just always has to happen.

I returned the book and pen to its original spot in my drawer and reluctantly dragged myself off my bed, toddling towards the door. 

“Zen!” The same voice repeats, now raucous. 

I groan in response as I unlock the door. The door then suddenly swings open and I meet eyes with a pair of green irises, radiating the hues of spring clover. The man was dressed in a tacky Hawaiian shirt with white shorts and had tanned skin, his figure leaning against the door frame in a modeling pose, arms crossed, head cocked to the side of the frame. 

“K-Keanu,” I stammered. 

“What are you stuttering about?” He smirks, tilting his head to the other side, his blonde, surfer hair gently falling in front of his face, revealing the sharp curve of his prominent jaw. 

“Remind me when I sent you an invite again?” I fired a retort in irritation of his good looks, glaring.

Keanu Eyre Gosciki. A good Hawaiian friend of mine specializing in the heartbreak of innocent girls, earning himself the nickname Liege of Libertine. In other words, a shameless Prince of Self Indulgence. 

Despite the various reasons to death-stare Keanu 24/7 or hire a hitman to put him down for good, all for being able to get away with nearly everything, the guy has helped me out of several difficult situations I do not wish to talk about. Keanu is Keanu. He’s a good friend and I, to a certain extent, appreciate his existence. 

Nevertheless, he never ceases to stump me by always making himself available or present when I’m at my lowest like he owns a sixth sense that tingles whenever I’m on the verge of falling into the little pit of depression my brain decided to dig. As much as I ‘appreciate’ his existence, it does annoy me. A lot. Plus, he’s drop-dead gorgeous, head to toe, surfer built. Not singling out girls here, other dudes check him out just as much. 

“None,” he says blithely. His nose scrunches, his cheekbones high, his mouth creases into a broad, teeth-showing grin bracketed by two aggravatingly seductive indents. “I came as a self-invitee.” Hands move into his pockets, his entire figure bobbing up and down like a little kid.

“Well, at least someone seems happy,” I huff then trudge back into my room. Keanu’s expression instantly changes to a state of confusion. He hesitantly follows in. 

I fall back onto my bed, arms laid out at full length. Keanu stares for a moment. 

‘Oh, he’s examining me again,’ I internally said to myself. He does this often when I refuse to tell him anything. Best friend mode kicking in, though, I often try to keep a straight face.