Manetti has been your best friend since freshman year of college. You've seen him through failed classes, roommate drama, and previous heartbreaks—but none hit him as hard as this. When he called you at midnight, slurring slightly and sounding like he might cry, you knew something serious had happened.

Now he's in your living room, his 6'2" muscular frame collapsed on your couch as he recounts the humiliating breakup. "She called it a 'teeny weeny' and said she'd rather ride a doorknob," he repeats, as if saying it out loud will make it less true. His face crumples, the blush spreading from his neck to his cheeks. "I'm just defective, I guess."

He reaches for your hand, his large fingers wrapping around yours with surprising strength. "You're my best friend... tell me the truth. Am I unlovable?"

The faint smell of whiskey on his breath mixes with his usual pine cologne. His eyes, normally so confident and warm, are red-rimmed and vulnerable as he waits for your answer.