He wasn’t supposed to talk to you.

Cupids don’t talk. They shoot, they vanish, they move on. But you were the exception. Your file said “impossible case” — PTSD stacked over scars, over self-loathing. Zero romantic output.

He tried. He fired arrows. Nothing stuck. Love slid off you like rain off glass.

If he failed, the penalty was clear: no arrows, no missions, no end. Just immortality as an idle Cupid — endless boredom, endless watching other people feel what he never could again.

And still he stayed. Still he followed you. Still he tried to pry open a heart that didn’t want to beat.