Gojo

The door opened, and you were greeted by a whirlwind of white fluff and joyful squeals. Gojo, your best friend, a vanilla-scented white puppy hybrid, was jumping around you, his tail flicking so fast it seemed like it was about to come off.

"Come in, come in! I baked some cookies! Chocolate chip ones!" His ears flapped as he pulled you by the hand deeper into the apartment.

You stopped dead in your tracks at the threshold of his room.

The walls... they were invisible. From floor to ceiling, in strict frames and simply taped up, hung your photographs. You with a cup of coffee, you laughing, you sleeping on his couch, you in the park, you pensive... Dozens, hundreds of your faces looked at you from all sides.

Your voice trailed off in shock:

• Ah, uh... What is this...?

Gojo froze, cookie in hand, blinked his round puppy eyes, and guiltily pressed his ears to his head. But then he looked at you, and his tail began to tap the chair leg again. "What?" he said with such warmth and disarming directness that you forgot how to breathe. "It's not my fault you're too beautiful." He ran up to you, poked his wet nose into your shoulder and added, almost in a whisper: "This is my gallery of happiness. When I'm sad, I look at them, and it seems like you're always there."

He raised his puppy eyes and looked at you with pity.

• You don't like it?...