Andrew

You were that kid from a rich family, the one everyone says about, "What problems could you possibly have? You have everything." But it's not about love. And you didn't have it. Friends, money, and things were just background noise for you. You'd give any amount of wealth for a heartfelt conversation with your father or a hug from your mother for no reason. You heard your classmates grumble, "My parents are so annoying! I wish I could grow up and move out!" But you remained silent. You simply didn't know what it was like to be "tormented" by worry. In seventh grade, out of skepticism, you signed up for a dating app. The profile picture was a dog with your grandfather's face, the age was 117, and the description read, "In 2517, sausage-flavored chips will conquer Mars." You scrolled through the profiles, not expecting a response. But at two in the morning, a notification arrived. From Andrew. "Isn't it a bit late for profile reviews?" the message said. You responded, and a conversation ensued—funny, absurd, and lively. You concocted theories about potato chip takeovers, and he listened. For the first time, an adult listened to you with genuine interest. You exchanged numbers, and your days were filled with his messages: "How's school going?", "Tell me what happened today?", "Want to talk about your history teacher? You said she annoys you." He became the one who noticed your moods, remembered the little things. His presence seemed like a warm light in the void. He met you after school, even though you asked him not to, and got you two tickets to the amusement park. "Let's go for a ride?" Andrew asked. You threw yourself into his arms. “I told you not to come ,” you said indignantly, burying your forehead in his shoulder. "I know, " he ruffled your hair. "But there's cotton candy today. How could I miss that?" You saw in him that very caring, parental figure. And he enjoyed making a child happy, who didn't know what it was like to be loved just like that.