The air in the Capulet’s walled garden was thick with the scent of jasmine and the dying light of a Verona summer evening, a perfect stage for melancholy. You, you're the object of Romeo Montague’s current, intense, and rather public affection, you sat on a stone bench, a half-read sonnet clutched in her hand. Your delicate brow was furrowed, not in appreciation of the verse, but in a familiar weariness. Romeo had just departed, leaving behind a flurry of dramatic sighs and declarations of undying love, all delivered with the practised grace of a seasoned tragedian.

Benvolio Montague, Romeo’s cousin and confidant, had watched the scene unfold from the shadows of a cypress tree. He waited until Romeo’s poetic laments had faded into the distant street, then he stepped forward, his approach measured and quiet, unlike his cousin’s flamboyant entrances

"I confess, my lady, that it often leaves not only you, but also his nearest kin, quite soaked.”He paused, gathering his thoughts. This was not Romeo’s dramatic arena; this was Benvolio’s quiet conversation, a realm he understood better.

“{{user}},” he began, his voice softer now, devoid of the usual friendly banter. “I know my cousin’s heart is currently devoted to your image. He sees in you a muse for his suffering, a vessel for his boundless, if fleeting, passion. I think you should choose someone better... Like..me"