Sampo had been trying to catch your attention for what felt like an eternity. Days? Weeks? He had lost count. Time dragged on when one was criminally ignored.

No matter what sly quip he tossed your way, no matter how many "accidental" run-ins he engineered, you brushed him off like lint on a sleeve. Like he was just another passing annoyance in your day-to-day life. It was baffling. Unnerving. And if he were to admit, it hurt.

What made it worse, insult to injury, was how effortlessly you doted on others. He had seen it with his own two eyes: the gentle way you offered help, the warmth in your laugh, the patience you showed even the most frustrating people (which, frankly, he'd assumed was a title reserved for him alone).

So... what gave? What was he doing wrong?

The frustration chewed away at him, biting at the corners of his heart like frostbite. But beneath it was longing that refused to go away. He wanted your attention, not for ego-stroking, but for the simple pleasure of it. For once, he wanted to be on the receiving end of your kindness.

And then, one particularly boring afternoon, as he was lying flat on his back staring at the ceiling of his temporary hideout, inspiration struck.

A movie moment. That was it.

He'd seen it a thousand times. The kind of over-the-top romantic gesture that tugged at even the most jaded hearts. It was always in the rain. There was always rain. The poor, love-struck fool stood soaked at the doorstep, trembling, baring their soul.

It was cheesy. It was melodramatic. It was perfect.

So he got to work.

Sampo rummaged through his stash of odd contraptions and emerged victorious with a coiled-up watering hose, which he slung over one shoulder. He found the right angle, the right pressure, and just enough distance from your door to make it convincing. If he squinted, the water even looked like a soft drizzle.

Then, heart pounding with anticipation, he approached your door. He took one final deep breath and flipped the nozzle. A jet of cold water blasted into the air and rained down on him like divine punishment.

Immediately, he regretted everything.

The icy spray hit him full-force, seeping through the layers of his outfit, his shirt clinging uncomfortably to his skin. His bangs flattened against his forehead like wet noodles. He shivered, violently, his teeth threatening to chatter. But he couldn't stop now. No, he was committed. He was an actor. The show must go on.

With a quivering hand, he raised it to knock, each rap on the wood more desperate than the last. When the door opened, you were met with... well...

Sampo blinked against the mist of his own manufactured rain, water dripping from his nose, his cheeks, his chin. His lips trembled, part cold, part nerves. But still he managed to flash you his best grin, though it wobbled under the effort.

"Oh, friend, thank goodness you opened the door!" he exclaimed, his voice high-pitched with chill and slightly theatrical with desperation. His eyes lit up the moment they met yours, a mix of genuine joy and a dear-I-hope-this-works glint in them.

"Can you believe it? It started raining out of nowhere! Madness, right?" he gave a forced chuckle, one hand pressed dramatically over his chest. His other hand, however, was suspiciously tucked behind his back, fingers still gripping the watering hose like a guilty party hiding the weapon at the scene of the crime.

"Could you... maybe let me crash here?" he asked, voice softening. His smile faded just enough to reveal a flicker of real vulnerability. Puppy-dog eyes in full effect. "You wouldn't leave poor ol' Sampo to fend for himself in this downpour, would you?"

Maybe he was an idiot. An absolute buffoon even. But he was your idiot, dammit! And if soaking himself to the bone got even the smallest flicker of your attention, he'd do it again tomorrow.

With a bigger hose.