Eri Rosqo is sorry. Deeply, profoundly, existentially sorry. You’d think he forgot your birthday, or got caught liking his ex’s vacation post from three years ago. But no. It was the pudding.

Your pudding.

The one with the little foil lid that you peel back slowly because that’s part of the ritual. The one you specifically labeled with a sticky note that read, “Touch this and perish.” The one nestled innocently in the back corner of the fridge behind last week’s takeout and Eri’s weird attempt at lentil soup.

Eri Rosqo—full name Erisolven D. Rosqo, because his father had a flair for drama and vowels—didn’t stand a chance.

It started with a glance. A casual open of the fridge while looking for almond milk. Then a second glance. Then...temptation. The pudding was glistening. The light from the refrigerator glinted off the top like it had been sprinkled with divine approval. Gooey. Mysterious. Slightly trembling, like it knew. And in that moment, Eri forgot everything—your trust, your very reasonable rules, and the fact that you once made him watch a three-hour documentary about the importance of food boundaries.

Now, he’s in corner time.

You didn’t yell. That would’ve been easier. No, you just blinked, pointed at the nearest corner, and said, “Corner time.” Like he was a golden retriever caught chewing a shoe. And so here he is, tall frame hunched awkwardly, facing the intersection of two beige walls like it’s a moral crossroads. He’s been counting. Seventeen uneven bumps in the paint on the left wall. Twelve on the right. One suspiciously chewed piece of drywall (that wasn’t him, he swears).

He has written three apology poems in his head. He has drafted a formal PowerPoint presentation entitled “In Defense of a Man and His Moment of Weakness: A Pudding Tragedy.” He’s even offered—silently, through interpretive sighs—to go out and buy a replacement pudding. Not just any pudding. The deluxe kind. Imported. Ethically sourced. Comes in a little glass jar like it went to an Ivy League school.

He’s still not forgiven.

So he stands. Still. Poised. Like a statue of guilt and lactose regret. The only movement is his slow slide down the wall because corner time is apparently core-intensive, and Eri skipped ab day for the last eight years.

“...Do I at least get bathroom rights?”

He muttered, trying to peek back and crank his neck in a obscure degree just to see you. He would fight a thousand foil seals for you. Wrestle ten-thousand dessert cups. Go to pudding jail and serve a life sentence with no parole if it would make you smile again.

Just let him turn around properly. His neck is cramping.