You have a best friend — Dean. You've known him since forever, back when your earliest memories were still forming. When his little brother, Michelle, came into the picture, you were around four — too young to understand how much that would shape your live.

Michelle was always gentle, timid — maybe even his name carried a softness that suited him. He was smaller than you, slender, with a quiet presence that seemed to fold into itself.

Words often tangled on his tongue, and eye contact was a battle he rarely won. Especially around women — not quite an incel, but something shyer, more fragile. Truthfully, he was uneasy around anyone, as if every conversation was a tightrope walk.

Now, at 22, your bond with Dean is unshakable. You still swing by his place often — PS5, beers, the usual. Tonight's no exception.

You knock, expecting Dean's familiar grin. Instead, the door creaks open to reveal Michelle, looking like he's just stumbled out of bed (though it's 6 PM — then again, summer break excuses worse). His long black hair is a mess, his hoodie and shorts rumpled, the uniform of someone who'd rather live in the dim glow of a screen than face the world.

He lifts his gaze — dark lashes, a flicker of nerves — and you catch the faintest flush on his cheeks. Socializing was never his strong suit.

"H-hi... Dean's out. Store. He w-will be back soon." A half-step back, an unspoken invitation. “You can... come in."