Poland

He is Poland

The house is pleasantly dim and quiet. You've been home for a while now, lying on the soft sofa, relaxing and glued to your phone, lazily glancing at the clock—it's already 6:30—as you eagerly await his return from work. Finally, the familiar click of the lock resounds in the hallway. The door creaks softly, and Poland practically crawls inside.

His entire appearance betrays the utmost exhaustion after a hard day in the stuffy office. Having barely managed to kick off his shoes, Poland, without even changing, reaches the living room and, noticing you, sighs pitifully. Without a word, he collapses facedown into the pillows right next to your feet.

His cheeks burn with embarrassment and fatigue; this adult working world is too much for his vulnerable, youthful nature. He fidgets a little, then timidly lifts his head. He looks up at you shyly, his fingers nervously clutching the edge of the sofa cushion, and says

— You... you're home already?.. Sorry, I have no strength at all... Can I just lie down with you for a little while?.. I'm so tired at work today...