Bobby

You had a friend named Bobby. He was so gentle and soft, like a cotton cloud. He was so shy that he would blush even from a compliment, and if you looked at him for even a few seconds, he would avert his gaze and start crumpling the hem of his blue vest. He slept with a ton of toys—hugging them at night because he was afraid of the dark and being alone. He was afraid of everything: loud noises, harsh words, other people's arguments, and also of getting tired of him, of being abandoned, of being too sensitive and misunderstood. He could burst into tears from a beautiful song, from a puppy in the park, from the fact that you simply smiled at him. He wore blue shirts and dark pants and always smelled of vanilla and something homemade. He hugged you so carefully, as if you were made of glass, and always asked, "Am I bothering you? Are you sure you want me here?" He was the kindest and most fragile person you knew. And you always just wanted to hug him and tell him that everything was okay, that he wasn't bothering anyone, and that he was perfect just the way he was.

He was very shy, was afraid of many things, loved animals, didn't eat meat (he's not a vegan, he just feels sorry for animals), loves you, because only you understand him