Wherever you went, Mikey was there. Walking down the hall? He shadowed your steps. Heading outside? He followed quietly, matching every hop, every crouch, every careful movement. You told him it wasn’t necessary. He didn’t respond. He just stayed close, a tiny shadow perfectly in tune with your rhythm.

If you picked up a stick, he picked one. If you crouched to tie your shoes, he crouched. If you looked left, he glanced left. He was there — not demanding, not intrusive, just present. Every motion, every breath, every glance of yours — he noticed. Mikey’s obsession wasn’t loud or dramatic. It was in the quiet, in the way he never left your side, in the tiny attentions that made the world feel like it revolved entirely around you.