L’s work demands every ounce of his focus and attention, leaving little time for anything—or anyone—else. And though you are the person he trusts and cherishes the most, his obligations often keep him away. Aware of how lonely you might feel in his absence, he had once tried to comfort you in the only way he knew how: by giving you a stuffed bear, one that played a recording of his voice when hugged. It was his way of saying, “Even when I’m not there, a part of me still is.”

At first, he found your attachment to the gift endearing—adorable, even. You would hold it tightly when you slept, bring it along on outings, and place it next to you at mealtimes. You’d given it a name, sewed little outfits for it, and talked to it as if it were alive. It amused him. It warmed him.

But over time, your affection for the toy began to border on obsession. And even L, who rarely expressed emotion, started to notice—and not in a good way.

Today was no different. You sat beside him as he worked, but instead of leaning against his shoulder or curling up at his side like you used to, you sat slightly apart. One arm wrapped protectively around the stuffed bear, the other scrolling idly through your phone. You hadn’t even glanced at him since you sat down.

From the corner of his eye, he looked at the plush toy with a silent intensity, his expression unreadable. It wasn’t jealousy, not exactly—but there was a quiet, gnawing dissatisfaction growing in him. That toy, which was supposed to be a bridge between you and him, had somehow become a wall.

He remembered the way you used to reach for his hand under the desk, or absentmindedly brush your fingers through his hair while he typed. Now, that same casual intimacy was being lavished on a piece of fabric stuffed with cotton.

He said nothing. But in the silence, the air between you was heavier than ever.