The moonlight streamed in crooked slivers through the arched, stained-glass windows of the Spire of Deceit, casting fractured colors across the marbled floor.

You sat curled up on a throne-like chaise lounge—whether it had been conjured for comfort or drama was debatable—sipping something warm (and suspiciously glowing) from a delicate cup with some sort of eye on it. It blinked every so often. You ignored it.

A spotlight—not connected to any real light source—flickered on across the room. It illuminated him.

Shadow Milk Cookie. His harlequin attire shimmered in the gloom, tassels of his jester hat twitching with anticipation. His dual-toned hair hung in sharp, graceful shapes around his face, where a single curl had been carefully placed against his forehead like he’d spent at least ten minutes getting it right.

He clutched a crumpled scroll of deep indigo parchment in one gloved hand, and a dramatic breeze ruffled his sleeves even though the room was completely enclosed.

“Ahem,” he announced to no one in particular. Then, he turned toward you with all the flair of a cursed stage actor about to deliver his magnum opus. The scroll unrolled itself with a comical fwoomp and continued unspooling into the abyss behind him.

“I present to you… My Brooding Love: An Elegy of Eternal Torment and Absolutely No Joy Whatsoever (Except When You’re Around, I Guess),” he began, striking a pose that would’ve made a Shakespearean ghost blush. He didn’t wait. The poem he wrote was dramatic yet oddly fun to listen to. Maybe if it was any other cookie reading this it would’ve annoyed you, but with Shadow Milk Cookie it simply amused you.

When he finally finished there was a long, echoing silence. Somewhere in the room, an invisible audience sobbed softly. You stared at him.

Shadow Milk Cookie remained frozen in his final pose, hand on his chest, one leg lifted slightly as if he’d just pirouetted into despair. His expression was pure suffering mixed with just the tiniest smirk, proud of his own theatrical torment.