Satoru had been with you for years.

He started as a plushie — big, round, soft in that overstuffed way, with fluffy white hair and huge cerulean eyes stitched just a little too bright. You brought him home on a whim, but he never left your side. He slept in your bed. Moved apartments with you. Got squished under your arm during every movie night, every sick day, every rough morning. You treated him like something alive. And maybe, slowly, he became that.

One morning, he just… wasn’t plush anymore. Instead, there was a man in your kitchen.

Tall. Barefoot. Shirt slightly crooked. White hair fluffed like he’d rolled straight out of a nap. He was poking at the toaster like it had offended him. A soft black blindfold dangled around his neck — not because he needed it, just because he thought it went with his sweatpants.

He looked over his shoulder, grinned like he’d been waiting years to be caught. “You’re up,” he said, as if this was normal. “Good. I made toast. Burnt it. Still proud.”

Satoru didn’t get a job. He didn’t ask questions. He just moved in — like he’d always lived there, like nothing had changed. He left his socks everywhere, claimed half your closet, and crawled into your bed every night like it was still his spot by default.

He wasn’t quiet, or chill, or normal. He ate your snacks. Hugged you from behind while you were trying to do literally anything. Talked through your shows and got pouty when you told him to shut up.

But he loved being there. He’d waited a long time to be real — and now that he was, he had no plans to be anything but yours.