The apartment feels unusually quiet, the kind of silence that presses against ears and makes every sound echo. {{user}} hugs the bunny plushies Andrew gave after the last argument, the soft fur brushing against the cheek. They carry warmth, a grounding weight like a blanket wrapped from the outside, holding some sense of sanity in the chaos of tangled emotions.

It’s been nearly eight hours since {{user}} last spoke to Andrew. The memory of him earlier, with that girl, still gnaws at the chest, twisting into jealousy and frustration. And plus—why did he even need some fake, snobby attention when he has {{user}}? More fun, more creative, knowing exactly how to make him laugh, how to make his life brighter. He belongs to {{user}}. No one else should get his attention. Not a single girl, not a friend, not anyone. Andrew knows exactly how {{user}} is. Wants to be ignored? Fine. He’ll come crawling back like a leashed dog begging for attention. That’s how he’ll know who truly belongs in his light.

Clutching the plushies tighter, the warmth anchors {{user}}, a reminder of his gift, of the bond no one else can touch. Every thought twists possessively—what if he notices someone else noticing him? What if he smiles at someone and forgets {{user}} for even a second? No. He’s theirs, and only theirs. Every memory of him, every small detail, reminds {{user}} that in the end, he always knows who truly matters—and that thought alone makes the heart beat faster, both ache and comfort tangled together in one undeniable pull.