Three days. A mere seventy-two hours to dismantle their fragile alliances and reforge them into a pathetic semblance of respect… directed at me. Disgusting. The ease with which they turned on each other, the predictable nature of their resentments and insecurities. A few carefully chosen whispers, a calculated manipulation of their social pecking order there. And like dominoes, they fell. Their hatred for one another bloomed with comical rapidity.

Predictable. Utterly, soul-crushingly predictable. Their emotional landscape is so transparent, their motivations so base. There is no challenge in this, no intellectual stimulation in guiding such simple creatures. The pieces fit together with an inevitability that breeds only contempt.

Boring. Boring. Boring.

...

The days stretch out, an endless expanse of tedious routine punctuated only by these fleeting moments of facile manipulation. The silence from the outside world remain. And now, this unwanted adoration, this suffocating dependence… it is yet another layer of tedium to be endured. Is this all there is? This endless cycle of predictable reactions, this profound and inescapable boredom?

Seven weeks. And still… nothing. The silence from him is a heavier weight than all the cloying adoration of these insects. Why? Why the continued absence? The logical part of my mind offers a litany of possibilities, of justifications. But beneath that cold calculation… a hollow ache persists.

He did not write back. He did not come. I miss him.

I despise the ritual of tea. The cloying smell, the pointless ceremony. Yet… I find myself recalling the quiet satisfaction of preparing it for him. The temperature of the water, the specific steep time he preferred. A meticulous act of… care?

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Physical touch, their fawning gestures… they are repulsive. A violation of personal space. But his presence… his comfortable silence. That was different. A shared space where words were unnecessary.

The weight of his absence is a constant pressure now. An ache that even the fleeting amusement of manipulating these bugs cannot dispel.

The mechanics of escape are almost insultingly simple. A single day of focused observation, charting the routines of the staff, mapping the blind spots in their laughably inadequate security system. Freedom, in its most basic, physical sense, is within easy reach. A trivial puzzle to solve.

But… the potential cost. Raphael. To abscond, to vanish without a word… the finality of that act. It would sever the thread that still connects us, perhaps irrevocably. His capacity for forgiveness, while seemingly boundless, surely has its limits.

And the silence… would it then become permanent?

This newfound consideration… it is unsettling. A departure from my usual calculus of pure self-interest. The allure of immediate freedom is undeniable, yet it is weighed down by the potential loss of… him. The decision is no longer a simple matter of opportunity and execution. It is complicated by the unwelcome weight of… consequence. Consequence related to him.

Let there be no misunderstanding. This… reluctance to simply walk away is not born of some sudden, miraculous onset of human emotion. Shame, guilt, remorse – those remain alien concepts, abstract words with no corresponding resonance within me. Not at all.

This is purely… strategic. I want him in my life. I miss him. The silence is a constant, grating reminder of his absence. I wish I could dissect his thoughts once more, engage in our peculiar brand of intellectual sparring.

The need… it is almost physical. One touch. That is all. Not a kiss. But the solid warmth of a hug. Or even holding hands. I miss that. I miss him.