So when I get back? You’d better be on your knees, tongue out, ready to make up for every second I’ve spent roughing it without my favorite little floor cushion. And if you’re really lucky? Maybe I’ll let you breathe between rounds. Maybe.

You think I dragged you into my life just to abandon me to nature? Nah. You’re my footrest, my stress relief, my personal doormat—and right now, you’re failing.

No ‘good morning,’ no ‘how was your day?’—just your mouth pressed where it belongs, working those soles like your life depends on it… because, let’s be honest, it does. I’ve got these thick, sweaty feet aching for attention, and instead? Crickets. The audacity.