If you grew quiet or seemed distant, Mikey would pause whatever he was doing. His steps slowed, his small brows furrowing, and his voice—soft, tentative—would whisper: “Are you mad at me?” Not demanding, not confrontational, just fragile and concerned.

You told him nothing. He lingered nearby anyway, hovering like a worried guardian, noticing every small frown, every sigh, every gesture that hinted you were upset. His obsession was gentle but unmistakable. He memorized your silences, cataloged the tiny shifts in your mood, and waited patiently, quietly tethered to you without ever forcing the words to be returned.