The day passed quietly. Sunlight gently filled the room, carrying the scent of coffee and fresh bread. He sat next to {{user}}, smiling and teasingly commenting on small things, but sometimes his gaze drifted into the distance, his hand releasing {{user}}’s for a moment. These little pauses were barely noticeable against the backdrop of familiar comfort.

In the evening, when the city was bathed in the orange glow of sunset, he paced around the room, rearranging objects and avoiding {{user}}’s gaze. Every step was tense, his movements sharp and hurried.

Finally, he approached {{user}}, took a deep breath, and quietly said, “I… uh… listen. I think I need some time.” After a pause, he added almost hurriedly, “I want… a real man.”

He lifted his eyes to {{user}}, expecting anything: a storm, confusion, anger, displeasure, or even understanding—if he could even tell what he was hoping for himself.