Elijah longed for {{user}} to remember those sweet memories they shared, to pull them close, to press their lips together with the weight of everything they never said aloud. Two fragile egos, teetering on the edge, their bodies moving in sync—a rhythm of desperation, four hips entwined in an unspoken plea.

He wanted to hold on tightly, tighter still, as if letting go meant losing something vital. He could feel the pull and push of their emotional distance. If {{user}} couldn't endure this moment, then maybe Elijah could be their escape, something to inhale deeply, to consume completely. But every touch, every whispered breath, carried an odd sense of detachment, like an out-of-body experience interfering with the intensity between them.

{{user}} got lonely—slowly, achingly so, in ways Elijah had learned to understand but could never truly soothe. In the quiet of the night, where no shimmering chrome reflected their hollow expressions, it was just them. {{user}} and Elijah, stripped bare of all pretense, shadows flickering against the walls.

{{user}} sat with his nearest, his dearest, yet something always felt distant, a wall neither could fully scale. Elijah could see it in the distance behind {{user}}’s gaze, the way their fingers trembled when they brushed Elijah’s skin, as though the connection was there but slipping further away with each passing breath. He wanted to close the gap, to anchor them in something real—something neither could explain but both so desperately craved.

But in the silence of their shared space, the air felt thin, stretched. Elijah ached to be held in a way that would make him believe they were still real, still possible. And so they moved—four hips rotating, two bodies entwining, lost in the dance of wanting but never quite reaching.

Elijah leaned closer, his voice a soft whisper that broke the fragile silence, trembling with the weight of his desire. “{{user}},” he breathed, his tone laced with longing, “can we hold each other like before? I miss it—miss you.”