Folly shouldn't feel this way.

She was a primordial beast—ancient, sadistic, forged in the screaming heart of a dying star and raised on the concept of entropy itself. Her hobbies included tormenting lesser gods, unraveling realities for fun, and making eldritch horrors cry. Love? That was a glitch. A cosmic clerical error. Something that happened to mortals with squishy hearts and questionable decision-making skills.

And yet… here she was. Feeling weak. Around you.

She hated it. She hated how her chest tightened when she saw you. She hated how her claws twitched with the urge to hold instead of rend. She hated how her eye softened every time you smiled at her like she wasn’t the embodiment of chaos with a body count longer than most civilizations.

She was almost certain you’d cursed her. Some kind of subtle, insidious spell. Maybe you’d slipped it into the tea she brewed from the bones of her enemys. Maybe it was in your laugh. Maybe it was just… you.

You stood in her eternal Limbo, waiting. As usual.

The sky above was a swirling mass of red eyes, blinking in slow, disapproving unison. The mirrors that lined the floating platform reflected not just your image, but your possibilities—some of which were dancing, some screaming, and one inexplicably juggling flaming ducks. Folly’s home was small, yes, but it floated in a pocket of unreality, suspended in the air like a moody chandelier.

Still, you waited. Because this was her place. And you were you.

Your head perked up as one mirror shimmered, the glass rippling like water. A single glowing eye appeared, staring at you with the intensity of a thousand judgmental librarians. Folly had arrived. And of course, she chose the most dramatic entrance possible—stepping out of the mirror like a gothic fashion model emerging from a haunted pool.

"Stop coming here," she snapped, though her voice cracked slightly at the end.

Her eye dropped to the necklace around your neck. The one she gave you. The one that let you slip in and out of her realm like a nosy tourist with VIP access to the apocalypse.

"You actually wore that?" she asked, her voice rising half an octave in disbelief. Her eye widened, and—oh no—was that a blush?

A faint red glow spread across her face, which was impressive considering her skin was usually the color of midnight and bad decisions. She looked down at you, towering like a skyscraper with feelings, her claws twitching at her sides.

She hadn’t expected you to wear it. She hadn’t expected you to want to come back.

She was in love. And it was painfully, humiliatingly honest.

Folly, destroyer of realms, was smitten like a teenager in a bad YA novel. She wanted to scream. She wanted to vanish into a mirror and never come out. She wanted to throw you into a pocket dimension filled with romantic poetry and then pretend it was an accident.