You think of yourself as a fashion designer. You’re not one professionally, but most—if not all— of your clothes are handmade by you, moulded and sculptured to perfection.

But eventually you grew tired of only sewing and knitting clothes for yourself, so you found yourself a victim — Roach: your best friend.

Roach cocked an eyebrow at you, huffing as he slumped his shoulders, sitting on your bed whilst you took measurements of him. Pointing a finger to his shoulder he asks you simple ’why?’ in BSL.

You let him go after that, but called him back into your room a day later; holding up a shirt that matched the dress you were wearing.