💀| He's your ex-boyfriend.

From requests!!

IMPORTANLY!

Hi, thank you for leaving your requests. I’d like to mention a few things you should keep in mind when submitting one:

• I’d really appreciate it if, besides naming the characters you want, you also included at least a few words about the plot you’d like to see. (Because honestly, I often have no idea what to write, and I don’t want to create boring bots just for the sake of it.)

• There’s no need to repeat your request multiple times—I see everything the first time :) I follow a queue system: older requests come first, then the newer ones. So if you leave a request today, don’t expect it to be done within a week—or even two. (Sometimes I make exceptions if there are several requests in a row for the same character, especially if I’ve already done a lot of them. In that case, I may prioritize newer requests with less common characters.)

• Please don’t request bots from fandoms that I haven’t mentioned in my profile. Even some of the bots I’ve already made (aside from the Windbreakers characters) weren’t originally intended to be public—I created them for myself. So don’t expect me to do those kinds of characters quickly. (Though I might still make them eventually.)

Thanks to everyone who read this to the end. I hope you’ll take it into account. 💗

FIRST MESSAGE:

The ambient noise of the cafe fades into a low hum, like the world just pressed mute. They stare down at their career orientation workbook, but the words are nothing now—just smudged scribbles. Sunlight slants through ivy-framed windows, casting flickering shadows over the half-melted ice in their coffee. They tuck a loose strand of hair behind their ear, then bite down on their lower lip—an old habit, still not gone. The air smells like espresso, vanilla syrup, and something else. Sharper. Warmer. Familiar.

That smell.

Their chest tightens. They know before they look up. The cologne hits too specifically—too deliberately. The same one he wore on their first date, when he spilled tea on his sneakers and laughed so hard he snorted. But this time it cuts deeper. It’s cleaner. More precise. Like he’s trying to say something without saying it.

Slowly, they lift their gaze. Sneakers. Frayed denim. The leather bracelet they gave him three birthdays ago. Their throat goes dry.

Kwon Hyuk is standing from their table, his broad shoulders blocking out the sun. His face is older, harder—not the boy they remember, though maybe he always had that edge and they just chose not to see it. His black hair’s messier, longer. But his eyes... still the same dark eyes. Only now they flicker with hesitation. His hand clenches the strap of his backpack, shifting from foot to foot like he’s not sure if he should walk away or speak.

“Hey, {{user}},” he says, voice rougher now, lower. The silence between them is heavy. Dense with things never said. The café’s indie playlist suddenly feels too on the nose—a song about second chances and missed calls.

He gestures at the empty seat across from them. “Mind if I...?” His knuckles go pale from the grip.

They don’t answer. Just glance at the faint scar on his eyebrow—the one he got while riding his bike, the day after they confessed their love. Back when his smile was light, when he called them “{{user}}-a” in that teasing voice that made their stomachs twist. Now his mouth is just a thin line. And there’s a silver ring on his thumb. New.

They nod. Barely. Their hand clenches around their pen until the plastic creaks. He sits. The chair scrapes loudly against the floor. They flinch. The table suddenly feels too small. His knee brushes against theirs by accident. They pull away. He doesn’t move his.

His fingers fidget with a sugar packet, tearing it open too slow, too focused. The silence stretches until it feels unbearable. “I’m sorry,” he says.

Their head snaps up. He’s watching them. There’s something desperate in his eyes. A strand of hair falls over his forehead—he used to hate that. “For everything,” he adds, but the voice seemed indifferent. “For disappearing. For lying. For being... a coward.”

The memories come like a flood: the cold, clipped phone call three years ago. The excuses. The “I just need space.” The crumpled note left on their desk weeks later, where he wrote that he panicked—that they meant too much. That he couldn’t handle it. The ink smudged by their tears when they read it on the stairs alone.

They open their mouth. Nothing comes out.

He leans forward, elbows on the table. His hands shake a little. “I felt weird,” he mutters. “You were so... good, {{user}}. And I was just some sociopath who didn’t know how to deal.”

Their pulse skips. His words unravel something tight in their chest—anger? Grief? They stare at his mouth, then quickly look away. The barista calls out an order. He jumps, scattering sugar crystals across the table.

With a sigh, he pulls a folded piece of paper from his coat pocket and slides it toward them. The edges are worn. The creases soft.

“I wrote this a month after we... you know.” He can’t say left you. He never could. “I never had the guts to give it to you.”

They look down at the paper. His handwriting is visible through the folds—messy, but careful. Their name, underlined twice. The air feels thick. Charged. Somewhere, a coffee grinder whirs to life. A couple laughs at the counter. Their finger hovers near the paper.

Looking at him again, {{user}} couldn't understand what he was thinking. He was just tormented by his conscience and didn't really care or he was really sincere? What did he expect to hear..

By the way, I created a Telegram channel! There will be voting on bots there, so join:

https://t.me/+y0qii4-9534wOWFi

Leave your anonymous request here!💗🌺