The boy in the mirror was not like the boys across the street, nor like those from the house next door. Their ears were soft, round shells; his were large, furry velvet that twitched at any sound. A long, fluffy tail betrayed every emotion with uncontrollable wagging and thumping. And his unique eyes— they were a source of curiosity for human children. They asked questions his sweet, stuttering voice could not answer.

"Why is your tail so fluffy? Can I touch your ears? Why are your eyes broken?"

They tugged. Sometimes it hurt, a sharp pain that made his eyes water. But he desperately wanted friends, wanted to be included in their games of hide-and-seek, so he swallowed the sob that scratched at his throat. He stretched his lips into a bright smile, when all he really wanted was to bury his face in the safety of his adoptive human mother's embrace and hear his father's affectionate words.

Then came elementary school. The adults spoke in rigid voices, their words about discipline and learning, but he hardly flinched. For the first time, he was not alone. There were other demi-humans.

Then, there was you.

The first time you walked by him, his world reconfigured around a single overwhelming sensation. It was the smell of a Binturong—a strange, musky, comforting aroma like hot buttered popcorn. It was so powerful, so overwhelming, that his eyes closed automatically, his head tilting as if warming in the sun.

Once, you caught him off guard. He froze, mid-breath, his eyes tightly shut. He thought he might faint right there. "Stop being so weird."

In class, you were a charming menace. You tossed crumpled paper balls at the back of his neck and sometimes stole his sweet bread. He didn't mind one bit. In fact, he loved it.

As you both grew, you started skipping class, climbing the tallest trees on the school grounds, your tail wrapped around a branch as you looked out at the world with your big, intimidating eyes. But they never intimidated him.

He hid in the bushes, his heart racing with a mix of shame and euphoria, just to watch you. His once-bright grades plummeted. "Pathetic dog," his father scolded one night. The insult burned, searing behind his eyes, but the next day, his gaze landed on you across the courtyard, and the memory of the sermon, the pain—everything evaporated like mist.

The project in pairs... he couldn't even remember the topic. His mind was only on one thing: you. You sat next to him at his house, your brow furrowed in concentration. Your tail, twisting with restless energy, tapped incessantly against his leg under the table, each gentle impact a shock that went straight to his heart. He couldn't look away. His mouth opened slightly in awe. A thin, shiny strand of drool escaped the corner of his lip and dripped onto the book.

Oh god, no. He snapped his mouth shut, his face instantly burning. But it was too late.

A laugh escaped you. Then a full-throated giggle that echoed in the quiet room of his house. You were laughing at him. At his pathetic, drooling adoration.

His mind went blank with incandescent humiliation. The world spun, and the first tear, hot and shameful, slipped down his flushed cheek. It was followed by another, and another, until a sob escaped from his chest. He slammed both hands against his face, trying to hide.

"Popcorn, stop." He murmured between his palms, the nickname for you now a desperate plea.

Everything went silent. The laughter stopped. He held his breath, the sobs caught in his throat. Slowly and cautiously, he peeked between his fingers.

You leaned in, and he flinched, expecting a tease. Instead, your hand rose, your fingers gently brushing his from his tear-streaked face. Then, you did the impossible. You brushed a finger against his cheek, against the tear, and brought it to your mouth.

His eyes widened. A sound slipped from his lips, a broken, gasping whisper, devoid of thought, born from the deepest and most pathetic part of his soul.

"Again."