His slender fingers opened the phone by pressing the same pass code 'O4O2'. It's a simple pass code really, a date he will never forget. As he quickly browsed through his contacts, Lovino opened his most precious contact, and sent him a simple, quick text.

Morning. The coffee machine broke down again. I told you to fucking fix it. And you didn't.

Lovino threw the phone away then, watching the sleek little phone bounce over the messy covers of his bed, as he got up groggily, with a small yawn and a sigh. Why was he up in this damn hour? It really made no sense to him. He really should be asleep. For at least another nine hours or so. At least nine.

Ugh this bread is so fucking stale. I'll break my teeth eating it.

Lovino's bread wasn't stale. Not one bit. It was fresh, still a bit warm from the microwave, with nicely smeared jam on it. It was actually pretty good. He just wanted a reaction, of any sort.

The traffic is horrible. I'm stuck in this car for fifteen minutes now, and I swear, it will be spring when this fucking line moves.

Lovino tapped his finger impatiently over the steering wheel, his eyes narrowed. He hated traffic jams. He really did. He always preferred the open road, the travel.. He always wanted to travel. But somehow he never got the chance to travel.

That girl from work is pregnant. Again. How can someone get knocked up every fucking time they decide to frick fack? Seriously tho. I'll buy her condoms when she comes back from maternity leave I swear.

Lovino's fingers ran over the keyboard, as he neatly typed in the manuscript, his eyes slightly misty. He hated writing sad things or something like that. That's why he texted him, again. His phone didn't do its usual ding, as to announce there was a new text waiting for him. It didn't even buzz. What a rude man, not replying to his texts.

Apparently, the coffee machine at work is down for maintenance. What load of bullshit. They just want us out of the coffee room, so that my boss can screw every new assistant. I can't wait to be a boss.

Lovino's annoyed eyes scanned through his work place, over the four other people neatly typing in the manuscripts. The moment he's done with this one, he's taking it to the printers and getting it done, and then off to proof reading he goes.

This story is bullshit. Why the fuck am I reading this load of crap? Even that Twilight ass wipe is better than this. Ugh.

Lovino often complained about his work. And who wouldn't? Reading teen fiction really isn't the thing he wanted to read. He liked more mature books, smart books, how he used to call them. But nobody wrote those kinds of books anymore.

I'm heading home now and I'm buying a new coffee machine you twat.

His phone showed him that his recipient had seen all of the messages. Maybe he's just busy, Lovino told himself as he went through rows, and rows of coffee machines. Maybe he's just having a hectic day at work, or at home.. Yeah. That's it.

IMAGE

Look how fucking awesome my new coffee machine is. It's so bitching.

The coffee machine was quite cutting edge, all black and shiny. Just how he liked his appliances. Lovino went back home then, the coffee machine in a bag on the driver's seat. Eerily quiet it was in the car, since Lovino's phone wasn't blowing up with all the texts he never seemed to receive

.

Ahh, fucking finally. This coffee is pretty damn good.

Lovino wrote that as he had made himself a nice big cup of coffee along with some brownies. He perched on his couch, with the phone in one hand and coffee in the other. Now with time, he started to send more texts. It was a special day after all.

You know what day it is, right? We met on this day. It was a really lovely day.

Yeah, I know, the weather was pure shit, but the weather there always is shit.

You acted like a bloody idiot all the time.

But a lovely idiot.

Are you there?

I saw that you've seen my texts.

Why aren't you texting me back?

Did I say something wrong?

Are you mad at me?

Please respond.

I need to hear your voice.

Please.

I don't even know why you're doing this. You said you won't do this anymore. But you're doing it again. Why did you have to lie?

You know how I hate liars and people who beak their promises.

Why do I still love you then?

Huh?

Lovino stopped texting him then, his caramel eyes locked on the screen. He didn't see these messages. He didn't see them. The time he checked his phone was four hours ago. If he deletes them, he would have never saw them. So he quickly got to work, deleting every needy, every text that showed how scared he was. Even if the words didn't exactly say it, he was scared. Horribly scared.

That's why Lovino deleted all of his text messages, threw his phone away, and curled up on the couch. Oh did he love that silly German man, the man who played with his heart, made him believe, made him happy. Oh how he loved that smile, that laugh, that everything that came along with him. He loved him so dearly, so passionately, so much he couldn't really handle it.

Their relationship was strong, passionate, intense. They were everything to each other, and with all that fire there, sooner or later sparks flew and they would fight. They would yell. But somehow they always got back together.

Yet that one night, Lovino said something wrong, and he took it the wrong way. And no matter what he said afterwards, nothing changed. Nobody changed. Nothing happened anymore. They were cold. Silent.

All Lovino did was text him again and again. Simple, stupid text messages, to show he still cared, that he still thought about him. Some days he would send up to twenty to thirty messages. Others, he wouldn't send anything, nothing for a week, maybe three. Then something would push him to do it again.

So sensitive are our souls. They feel every emotion, every picture, every little thing. They overexaturate. They see too much, hear too much, feel too much for their own good. And then they wonder how could they let themselves be hurt. How could they let themselves feel so much, so passionately, that now, once it's over, they sit there, broken.

A little bit chipped, a little bit rough around the edges.

His phone dinged, a quiet soft sound against his tears, against the sadness that was running into him. Lovino quickly got up and went to his phone, his fingers shaking. The front screen said he got a text. A text from him. Finally. Finally.

Even if the message wasn't personal, even if the message said nothing special, it still made his heart flutter, still made him feel so much, think so much.. Oh, was he in love, so desperately, so horribly.

His fingers shook as he opened the phone's home screen, and then tapped on the message icon.

Please stop texting me, Lovi.