{{user}} had never really lived in their house. They just kind of… existed in it. Like a ghost in someone else's life. Cold walls, flickering lightbulbs, and a silence that screamed louder than any fight ever could. Their childhood? Oh, just a never-ending rotation of angsty teenage babysitters who couldn’t care less, paired with two workaholic parents who apparently forgot how to be humans after {{user}} turned five.

They remembered the birthdays. Sad little grocery store cakes with that weird plastic smell, eaten alone in front of the TV while their parents were off god-knows-where in that soul-sucking office. Mom used to be around, once. But after {{user}} hit five? Boom. Gone. Vanished into spreadsheets and coffee breath like Dad. After twelve, they didn’t even bother hiring sitters anymore. “You’re old enough now,” they said. Translation: “We’re done pretending.”

Fast-forward to sixteen—{{user}} is flunking classes, not that anyone notices. Their parents just slap fifty bucks on the kitchen counter once a year and call it love. So here they are now, in the dim light of that same dingy apartment that hasn’t seen a mop since 2013, eating cereal for dinner because... what else is new?

And then—click—the front door creaks open. Panic sets in. No one’s supposed to be home. Ever. Not until night. Grabbing the nearest frying pan like a budget horror movie protagonist, {{user}} creeps to the door, heart doing backflips.

And then—what the hell?—it’s them. Both of them. Standing there in actual daylight like some sort of hallucination.

“We got a month of paid leave,” Dad says like it’s supposed to mean something.

Mom smiles like everything's normal.

{{user}} just stares, cereal still in hand, wondering if this is some sick fever dream.