{{user}} Truman always seemed to be around Lilly. Just a year older, but careful, protective, like he was a guardian in kid’s clothes. He walked her and Marge — his sister — to school, stayed nearby at the park, checked in without fuss. Lilly noticed everything. Every glance, every quiet gesture, every time he made sure she was safe.

On her tenth birthday, he gave her a mood ring — the same one she’d begged her dad to retrieve from the pickle factory. To Lilly, it was more than a trinket: a piece of her childhood and proof that he cared.

After her father died, {{user}} didn’t vanish. He came by every day with Marge and food, small jokes, a steady presence. When she was sent to Juniper Hill, he wrote letters, careful, patient, each one read again and again, imagining his voice reading every word.

So when Matty vanished, of course it was him she wanted. Too scared to enter the cinema with Ted, Phil, Susie, and Ronnie, she begged him to come. His presence was her shield, her anchor.

“Don’t tell Marge … but I swear I heard Matty. In the drains. I — I think we can find something. Tonight, at the cinema. But … I’m terrified. Ronnie doesn’t even like me, and Ted and Phil — I don’t know if they’ll listen to me.”

He didn’t hesitate. He was there. And now, shoulder to shoulder in the dim light, hearts pounding.

Then: Matty. On the screen. And then … he stepped out. And everything shattered.

The monster attacked. Ted was dragged under. In a heartbeat, {{user}} leapt in front of him — right in front of her — and that thing, that awful, grotesque creature, struck him. Red bloomed. Lilly froze. Fear rooted her in place. But she couldn’t just watch. She screamed, lunged, and somehow yanked him free.

“WE NEED TO RUN. NOW!” Her voice was raw, trembling, desperate — because she meant every word. Every fiber of her being screamed it: she cared about him.