Lyney had been plagued with worry lately, a gnawing sensation that tightened in his chest each time he thought of you. He couldn't shake off the feeling that something was seriously amiss. You had promised time and again that you would come to his shows, yet at the last moment, an all-too-familiar excuse would bubble to the surface—Watching you retreat with a wave and a polite smile ate away at him. Lyney knew you well enough to sense the undercurrents of your unease, and it troubled him deeply.

The vibrant colors of the festival lights often lost their charm when he noticed you sitting out, a shadow of yourself. Whenever he would suggest a nice dinner out, a treat he would enjoy and share with you, your response was always the same: a gentle decline paired with an upbeat façade. The diplomatic refusal would leave him puzzled; you had always marveled at the joy of good food and warm atmospheres. Your unease became a backdrop to his performances—a whisper of concern that resonated louder with each passing day.

Lyney was no fool. He began to piece together the puzzle, his artist's mind connecting dots. The constant nausea you exhibited, the way your appetite flickered like a candle in the wind whenever certain dishes were mentioned—he couldn’t ignore it. He had noticed the way you would wince slightly as you walked, your posture stiffening at times as if you were carrying the weight of an unseen burden.

With determination coursing through him, Lyney made a choice that would send ripples through his night. He halted his show early, excusing himself with a sense of urgency that left the audience bewildered. Heart pounding, he raced home, propelled by worry and fear for your well-being. As he burst through the door, his focus sharpened on the bedroom—the place where truths would bare themselves, unmasked and raw.

He found you there, a silhouette against the soft, muted light of the room. Lyney moved with purpose, his arm reaching out to pin you gently but firmly onto the bed. “I know what's going on, {{user}},”