Dmitry Baskov lived alone. But not in the way the average 25 year old male in the ever-dreary city of Seattle lived alone. His lonesomeness did not originate from the fact that he was the sole inhabitant of his cluttered one-room apartment. No, Dmitry genuinely lived a life of solitude, only receiving the barest interaction with other members of his species from within the darkened inner cavity of a movie theater ticket booth.

He also did not go by "Dmitry". It was his legal name, the moniker his mother had chosen for the unsettlingly silent baby that had stared up at her with large dark eyes—the baby that she might have smiled down at in that split second before she'd chosen not to love him. No, for the past ten years since he'd left home, he'd gone by Vines.

At a soaring 6'4 and only 200 pounds, he'd grown as fast and narrow as a vine. It also didn't hurt that Red Vines happened to be his all-time favorite candy. He'd come up with the nickname himself, after thankfully crossing "Tree" off the list almost as soon as the idea had entered his mind. But if anyone asked, Vines was prepared to say his friends had been the ones to come up with the rather unusual name.

The only flaw in this plan? Vines did not in fact possess a single friend.

And no one had ever bothered to ask.

Vines was of course a very proficient expert at self-deception, and had long ago convinced himself that the daily reminder of his total solitude that was conveyed even in the name he'd chosen for himself did not bother him. It didn't bother him in the slightest. He never thought twice about it.

He was content.

Deception or not, Vines was not entirely miserable. At least, not always.

Along with consistently providing customers with proper change whenever he worked the cash register, Vines listed his writing ability as one of his most noteworthy achievements, and one of the few things he allowed himself to take pride in. He spent nearly all of his free time with pen and paper in hand or his spidery fingers dancing across a keyboard, and he mostly focused on drafting poetry or crafting songs that he'd post on YouTube.

He didn't consider himself exceptionally talented as far as his vocal abilities were concerned, but Vines was determined to make even the tiniest of positive impacts on the lives of others—despite the fact that they didn't seem to want anything to do with him.

Along with songs and poetry, Vines also made a point of reaching out to the more despondent strangers on dating sites. Whenever he was feeling particularly down, he'd take a scorching hot shower, gulp down half a mug of tea before it had cooled or his inky black hair had even dried, then light up a joint and log on to .

It was after going through this rather odd ritual one night, around the time of year when his neighbors had begun hanging wreaths on their apartment doors and planning the obnoxious holiday parties that Vines knew he would not receive invitations to, that Vines received a response to the message he'd sent just thirty minutes before.

His joint fell from his mouth as he stared at the screen in shock, but he didn't bother trying to catch it before it fell into his half-empty cup of tea (it was cheap stuff anyway; he'd bought it from Steve in the alley behind the theater only because he'd been too lazy to trek down to the waterfront for a higher quality product). After the dozens of messages he'd left for lonely people on the website, Vines had never actually had anyone actually respond to any of them.

Well, other than Marla. Vines didn't usually count Marla. The elderly woman had been one of the first people he'd contacted when he'd begun this odd form of unrequited group therapy, and she still sent him a cat calendar every year as a thank you for his kind words. So no, Vines didn't really consider Marla's annual UPS package a real form of response. He did still make use of the calendar, though; kittens performing various acts of everyday human life are cute, especially when you're high.

Steering his thoughts away from his feline wall decorations, Vines lay back into the cushions of his threadbare couch and hefted his laptop from the worn coffee table onto his lap. After a few failed attempts to click open the message without his laptop tipping off of his bent knees and crashing into his face, Vines finally began to read.

Some fifteen minutes later, Vines had decided he'd like to get to know this middle aged male who went by Frank McLeay. According to his profile, Frank apparently spent most of his time on the job—although he'd neglected to reveal exactly what that job entailed— but liked to relax with a nice dinner, a Game of Thrones marathon, and a glass of Craig. Vines had devoured the existing five books of A Song of Ice and Fire, and he quite enjoyed the show; if nothing else, at least this Frank fellow had good taste in television.

But while Vines tried his best to only ponder the surface knowledge he'd discovered about this Frank fellow, there was only so much time he could spend thinking about exactly what "middle aged" meant before he was forced to consider the deeper implications of Frank's response.

Frank was alone. And not even complacently alone, or at what seemed to be the unattainable status of happily alone. No, Frank was in pain—a pain so palpable that Vines, a total stranger, had been able to sense it even in the 140 word response Frank had penned.

Of course, Vines did have a rather notable advantage as far as recognizing loners; 'takes one to know one' and all that jazz (who would've guessed such a bothersome Kindergarten proverb could assist in such deep self-reflection?). He didn't feel sorry for Frank, or pity his clear need, or perhaps even desperation, for companionship. Rather, Vines felt as if he could relate to this man.

What's more, it seemed as if Frank had been on a long and wearisome search for someone he could rely on. Vines had gone his whole life being ignored, being pushed aside, getting walked on and passed over—more or less the same response he'd received from everyone on this website (save Marla and the kittens). Vines had never been relied upon, never been needed before.

And so he decided right then and there, as his forgotten joint turned his tea from lukewarm dark amber to a foul watery brown, that he would become someone Frank could depend on.