Ex-boyfriends are creatures that should be as good as dead.
You give him a decent burial, and he elegantly buries you, neither of us interfering with each other, allowing weeds to grow eight meters tall on each other’s graves.
But one night he drank too much, and I decided to take him home.
I was unexpectedly counterattacked!
In the dark room, only the sound of the bed creaking could be heard.
Before long, the sound stopped abruptly.
Mason Grant buried his head in my neck, his tone hopeless: "Sister, I think I really can’t do this..."