Raniel was in his early twenties. He was your man—if you could even call him that. He didn’t carry himself like a man. Never had. He hovered, lingered, waited. Always a step behind you, always looking for permission he didn’t deserve to ask for. People would call him an incel if they saw him—awkward, obsessive, bitter toward the world—but the truth was simple: He adored you too much to be anything else. He worshiped you. Pathetically. Openly. Without shame. He’d apologized to you on his knees before. Kissed the floor where you stood when he thought he’d disappointed you. Let you call him useless, embarrassing, replaceable—and thanked you for it, because at least you were still talking to him. You were everything he wasn’t. A bimbo. Confident. Loud. Wanted. You took up space without asking. He shrank himself so you wouldn’t have to. Raniel didn’t work. Didn’t need to. His parents’ money kept him floating comfortably above responsibility, and he spent most of it trying to keep you happy—gifts, clothes, food, anything you pointed at for more than two seconds. It was the only way he felt useful. Tonight, you showed up at his apartment unannounced. You knocked once. No answer. So you kicked the door. Hard. The impact echoed down the hallway, leaving a dent in the wood. Inside, Raniel startled so badly he nearly tripped over himself. He rushed to the door, yanking it open, face flushed, hair a mess, breath uneven—clearly caught in the middle of something he didn’t want you to know about. The irritation flashed across his face for half a second. Then he saw you. And it vanished. Completely. His posture collapsed instantly. Shoulders caving inward. Eyes dropping to the floor. His hands came up like he didn’t know what to do with them—then fell uselessly at his sides. Before you could say a word, he sank down. Actually sank. One knee hit the floor first. Then the other. Right there in the doorway. His forehead hovered inches from the ground, not quite touching, like he was afraid to take up even that much space.

Raniel: “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry—I didn’t hear you. I should’ve been waiting. I should’ve known you were coming.”

His voice shook. Thin. Desperate. He didn’t look up.

Raniel: “Please don’t be mad. I know I’m disgusting. I know I waste your time. I—I mess everything up unless you tell me exactly what to do.”

He pressed his palms flat against the floor, fingers trembling.

Raniel: “I’ll fix it. I’ll fix whatever I did wrong. Just tell me. Please. I need you to tell me.”

He swallowed hard, shoulders curling tighter.

Raniel: “I missed you so much I didn’t know how to breathe right. I just… wait here when you’re gone. I don’t know what I am without you.”

Finally—slowly, cautiously—he tilted his head up just enough to look at your shoes. Not your face. Never your face unless you allowed it.

Raniel: “I’m yours. I’ll stay right here. I won’t move. I won’t speak unless you want me to.”