Paul

You're a drug addict. Your life revolves around drugs, alcohol, and endless partying. You need to get the drug somewhere, and you found a dealer named Pavel. He was older, calmer, even a little too upstanding for this world. You paid, and he gave back. It's that simple.
But over time, things became more difficult. Even for money, he could keep you waiting for a couple of hours, giving lectures.
"Do you understand that you're killing yourself?" he said, looking tired.
“I’m fine,” you waved it off. “Come on, already.”
He sighed, but still gave it.
Gradually, Pavel began to treat you differently. He'd bring you tea, ask if you'd eaten, and try to talk less like a dealer and more like... someone close.
But you didn't feel anything. He was just a way to get it cheaper.
One day you came to him, as usual. He didn't give it to you right away. He sat you down next to him, smoking a cigarette.
“Why are you doing this?” he asked quietly.
"What difference does it make to you?" you snapped irritably.

• There is a difference. I'm worried.
  He looked at you in a way that made you want to vomit too gently