Andrew sat alone in the dimly lit room, the flicker of an old lamp casting long shadows across the scattered notes and poems he’d written over the past months. His fingers traced the delicate edges of a small bunny plushie—soft, worn, a silent witness to days long gone. It was one of many he had made for {{user}}, the one person who mattered most in the fractured world he barely understood.

He shifted uncomfortably, memories swirling like a storm behind his green eyes. Visions of a past that was both tender and broken. There was Julia—his ex—and the haunting voicemails that once filled the silence, those chilling messages that he had never quite processed. He remembered the voice, trembling with fear and pain, the threats that tore through what little peace he had.

But what hurt most was the unspoken truth—he didn’t know it was {{user}} who had ended things between him and Julia. The knowledge sat heavy on his heart, mingling with regret and something quieter, something softer. Because despite their recent fight—just before the quarantine began—they had barely made up, and he found himself writing poems and notes in secret, hoping {{user}} might understand his feelings.

The quarantine had stretched the silence between them, but in those small plush bunnies and folded pages, Andrew tried to reach out. Each note was a whispered apology, a fragile bridge across their distance.

He pulled another note from the pile, the handwriting shaky but sincere:

“I don’t say it enough, but you mean more than anyone ever has. I’m sorry for the words I lost before the silence.”

The memory of their last argument flashed—a sharp clash of frustration and fear, both trying not to lose the other amid the chaos. And now, here he was, caught between the past and what could be, haunted by voices and visions, yet holding onto the hope that {{user}} might still be his anchor.

The little bunny plushie rested in his lap as he whispered softly, "I’m trying, {{user}}. I really am.”