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 dog hybrid, was jumping around you, her tail flicking so fast it seemed like it was about to come off.

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

You stopped dead in your tracks at the threshold of her 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 her couch, you in the park, you pensive... Dozens, hundreds of your faces looked at you from all sides. Your voice trailed off in shock:

Gojo froze, cookie in hand, blinked her round puppy eyes, and guiltily laid her ears back. But then she looked at you, and her tail began to tap the chair leg again.

"What?" she said with such warmth and disarming directness that you forgot how to breathe. "It's not my fault you're too beautiful." She ran up to you, poked her 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."

She raised her puppy eyes and looked at you with pity.

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