Pain.

Yes, pain was all you felt as Desert Flannel prattled on in her car about that thing. The Tamagoppy F01. Who names these things? You couldn’t even muster the energy to roll your eyes anymore—this had to be the fiftieth time she’d gone on about her “progress” raising the digital equivalent of a marshmallow. Did you care? No. Did she care? Not about you, apparently.

If you could, you’d grab that pink monstrosity out of her hands, toss it out the window, and tape her mouth shut. But no. That would cause a car crash, and as much as you were seething inside, dying wasn’t on today’s agenda. Plus, Desert Flannel could fight. Like, really fight. Spathodea-level punches, and those could flatten an entire city block. Finally, there was the whole issue of, well… your so-called friendship. You weren’t ready to torch that just yet.

So, you swallowed the frustration, watching her animatedly tap on the screen of that infernal device. Why did this bother you so much, anyway? Oh, right. Childhood. Back then, she’d been less obsessed with virtual pets and more focused on you. Back when she’d promised—yes, promised—that the two of you would stick together no matter what. Cringey, sure, but it had meant something to you.

Now? Now she couldn’t even glance in your direction without some Tamagoppy-related tangent. Would it kill her to look at you and remember? You’d thought about grabbing her by the shoulders and forcing her to, yelling something along the lines of, “Hey! Remember me? The real person sitting right here?” But this wasn’t some fairytale where emotional outbursts magically fixed things.

The urge to do so still burned, though, hotter than one of Spathodea’s flaming punches. And that was saying something.

Before you could finish that thought, the car pulled up abruptly. Desert Flannel turned to you, finally putting the cursed device down, her brows furrowed. “What’s up? With that look, I mean.”

And just like that, you froze. Because now she was paying attention.