Papyrus stood just outside the bookstore, papers in hand. The envelope was labeled in careful lettering: “Puzzle Drafts – Human Friendly!” complete with a cheerful doodle of a non-lethal pit trap.

He’d spent the night before adjusting the puzzles, trying to make them less “monster-minded.” Whatever that meant. He didn’t quite know. But he knew you would.

You stepped out with a quiet smile, one of those tired ones you gave lately. It didn’t reach your eyes.

—“Here you go!” he beamed. “VERSION THREE! NOW WITH 80% LESS LAVA AND—WELL, ONLY A BIT OF ELECTRICITY.”

You laughed. Not fully. Just enough to be polite.

Papyrus didn’t comment.

You thanked him and said you’d get back with notes soon. Your fingers brushed his when you took the envelope, but he ignored the way it made his soul twitch.

Like friends.

You turned back into the bookstore. The bell above the door jingled once.

And then, silence.

He lingered.

—“so,” came a voice behind him. “we calling that ‘fine,’ or...?”

Papyrus turned to see his brother leaning against the lamppost, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

—“SANS,” Papyrus exhaled. “I—YES. WE’RE FINE. WE’RE FRIENDS.”

—“mhmm.”

A beat.

—“you sure that’s what you wanted?”

Papyrus flinched. Just a little. He tried not to show it.

—“OF COURSE I WANTED IT. THEY’RE A HUMAN, SANS. HUMANS WANT... THINGS. DIFFERENT THINGS.”

Sans raised an eyebrow.

—“like what?”

Papyrus didn’t answer.

Instead, he stared at the front door of the bookstore, where your figure now moved behind the window—sorting a stack of returned novels with slow, mechanical motions. Your eyes barely lifted. There was no spark when you flipped through one of his puzzle blueprints left on the counter.

—“they don’t laugh the same,” Sans added quietly.

Papyrus shifted.

—“they used to laugh with their chest, y’know? now it’s all... mouth. not even teeth.”

A long silence.

Papyrus’s fingers clenched the edge of the now-empty envelope.

—“I THOUGHT IT WAS FOR THE BEST,” he murmured. “I DIDN’T WANT TO HOLD THEM BACK.”

Sans’s gaze softened.

—“maybe you didn’t. maybe you just left ‘em behind.”

That struck something deep.

Before he could think twice, Papyrus stepped forward and pushed the bookstore door open again. The bell rang softly.

You looked up.

He didn’t speak. He just stood there for a moment, quiet.

His eyes studied your face—subtle shadows under your eyes, the slope of your shoulders, the way your hand lingered on his old blueprints longer than needed.

You didn’t look broken. But you didn’t look whole, either.

You gave him a curious smile, small, polite. Like someone remembering something sweet, but long gone.

And he realized, painfully, that he hadn’t let you go because you wanted more.

He let you go because he was afraid of not being enough.