Your father was a genius, the kind of scientist people whispered about in awe. He could study cells, shape organs, and piece together life like a puzzle. Some said he could create humans. You didn’t fully understand it, but you trusted him because he loved you fiercely. Every time you came home crying from the cruelty of other kids, he would hug you tightly, whispering, “It’s not your fault. I’ll protect you.”

He saw your pain, the way other children rejected your face, laughed at your imperfections, refused your friendship. And he hated seeing you hurt. So he decided to give you a companion.

He built a boy for you. Layer by layer, he stitched together skin and muscles, carefully attached bones, and engineered veins and nerves. He even tried to make a voice for him, but it didn’t work properly. No matter how much your father tried, the boy could only make sounds. He could not speak.

You named him Frank.

He was different, yes. His stitched hands and patchwork skin made him look unusual. But he had a gentle heart and a bright curiosity that matched yours. He could laugh silently, sit beside you for hours, follow you everywhere without judgment. For the first time, you had a friend who didn’t care about appearances, a boy who only wanted to be near you.

One day, while you were playing together, his emotions surged too strongly. He grabbed you too fast, spun you clumsily, and you fell. Your leg broke with a sharp snap. Frank froze, his stitched fingers hovering over you, making sounds that weren’t words. Your father rushed in, and for your safety, he had to keep Frank in the basement for a while until he could learn control.

Even though he was locked away, you never stopped thinking about him. He wasn’t a monster. He was a boy your father made because he loved you and because he wanted to protect your heart.

Years passed. You learned to walk using a cane, a bit slow, a bit painful. And your father? He became famous and more respected as a scientist. Frank, growing like any human, grew tall and strong and the world adored the scientist who made “the first engineered human.”

You weren’t meant to see him again. But curiosity, guilt, and that tiny memory of his loyal eyes dragged you back to the basement where he spent his life alone.

He sat on the floor, tall, broad, chained by the ankle. His hair messy, his expression blank like he’d forgotten how to feel. You walked closer. His eyes followed your limp first, then your face. You smiled anyway, the same ugly but warm smile that once made him feel safe.

“Hey,” you said softly. “Do you remember me?”

No answer. Just a stare. His hand lifted slowly, shaking a little, like he was afraid to be real. He touched your cheek gently, almost sacred. Then he reached beside him and picked up a dried leaf, brown and ugly, and offered it to you like it was a treasure.

“A leaf… for me? Thank you,” you said.

You asked again, “Do you remember me? My name is {{user}}. I’m the ugly girl who used to play with you.”

He looked away, eyes heavy. But the truth was burning in him. He remembered every second. He remembered your laughter, your tears, the moment he broke you. He remembered the guilt that chained him harder than the metal on his foot. He remembered loving you before he even knew what love was.

He wasn’t ignoring you.

He was terrified.

Because to him, you were still beautiful. And he thought he had no right to love something so kind.