Rose was quiet, calculated. She sat two rows back in bio, never a threat. Dobby wasn’t just a nickname—he was my constant, my balance. Mine in the way someone can be without being owned. She watched us, learned the rhythm, echoed my words with just enough difference to feel new. She found the cracks. Late messages. Looks held too long. Laughter that used to belong to me. He started drifting. “You’re imagining things,” he said, but I wasn’t. I saw it. Rose didn’t steal Dobby. She rewrote him. Undid everything that made him mine, then claimed what was left.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣀⣀⣠⣤⣤⣀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣠⣤⣶⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣧⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣀⣤⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣴⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣀⢾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠿⠛⢋⣭⡍⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠀
⠀⢀⣴⣶⣶⣝⢷⡝⢿⣿⣿⣿⠿⠛⠉⠀⠀⣰⣿⣿⢣⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡇
⢀⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣧⠻⡌⠿⠋⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⢰⣿⣿⡏⣸⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⣼⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡇⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⠻⢿⠇⢻⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡟
⠙⢹⣿⣿⣿⠿⠋⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⠻⢿⣿⣿⡿⠟⠁
⠀⠀⠉⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠟⠛⢉⢉⠉⠉⠻⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠟⠠⡰⣕⣗⣷⣧⣀⣅⠘⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠃⣠⣳⣟⣿⣿⣷⣿⡿⣜⠄⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⣿⣿⣿⣿⡿⠁⠄⣳⢷⣿⣿⣿⣿⡿⣝⠖⠄⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⣿⣿⣿⣿⠃⠄⢢⡹⣿⢷⣯⢿⢷⡫⣗⠍⢰⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⣿⣿⣿⡏⢀⢄⠤⣁⠋⠿⣗⣟⡯⡏⢎⠁⢸⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⣿⣿⣿⠄⢔⢕⣯⣿⣿⡲⡤⡄⡤⠄⡀⢠⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⣿⣿⠇⠠⡳⣯⣿⣿⣾⢵⣫⢎⢎⠆⢀⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⣿⣿⠄⢨⣫⣿⣿⡿⣿⣻⢎⡗⡕⡅⢸⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⣿⣿⠄⢜⢾⣾⣿⣿⣟⣗⢯⡪⡳⡀⢸⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⣿⣿⠄⢸⢽⣿⣷⣿⣻⡮⡧⡳⡱⡁⢸⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⣿⣿⡄⢨⣻⣽⣿⣟⣿⣞⣗⡽⡸⡐⢸⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿

⡿⠛⠛⠛⢻⣿⠿⠛⠛⠛⢿⣿⣿⡿⠛⠛⠛⢻⡟⠛⣿⡿⠛⣻⣿
⠄⣼⣿⣿⣿⡇⠄⣾⣿⣧⠄⢻⡏⠄⣼⣿⣿⣿⡇⠄⡟⢀⣴⣿⣿
⠄⣿⣿⣿⣿⡄⠄⣿⣿⣿⠄⢸⡇⠄⣿⣿⣿⣿⡇⠄⣀⠈⢻⣿⣿
⣄⠈⠙⠛⢻⣧⡄⠙⠛⠉⣠⣿⣷⣄⠈⠙⠛⢹⡇⠄⣿⣧⠄⠻⣿

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣠⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣦⣀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⣰⣿⣿⣿⣿⠿⠿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣧⢀
⠀⠀⠀⣿⣿⣿⠋⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠙⠀⠙⣿⣿⣿⣷⢳⢀
⠀⠀⣠⣿⣿⣿⢸⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⠀⠀⣸⣿⣿⣿⠸⠀⠀⠀⠒⠒⠒⠐⠀⠀⢿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⠀⣴⣿⣿⣿⡿⠀⠒⣋⣙⡒⢰⠀⠤⣖⠒⢾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣧
⢺⣿⣿⣿⣿⢀⠀⠀⠉⠉⠉⠸⠀⡇⠉⠉⠀⢿⣿⣿⣿⣄
⠀⠙⣿⣿⣧⢻⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠠⠀⠰⠀⠀⠀⣸⠸⣿⣿⠿⠰
⠀⠀⠀⠹⣿⣿⣿⣷⠀⡠⠙⣲⣔⣅⢡⣰⣷⣿⣿⣿⣧
⠀⠀⠀⣼⣿⣿⣿⣿⠀⡿⠭⠭⠭⠭⢿⠀⣿⢻⣿⣿⠃
⠀⠀⠀⠙⠛⣿⢻⠹⣿⠐⠙⠛⠟⠉⢀⣴⡟⢿⣿⡏
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⡟⠀⠀⠻⣦⣤⣶⠾⠋⠀⠀⠁⡦⢄⢀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⡠⠁⡇⠑⢄⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠔⠀⠀⠁
⠀⠔⠊⠁⠀⠀⣇⠀⠀⠀⠑⡤⠤⢎⠁⠀⠀⡘
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢢⠠⠀⡠⢆⠀⠀⡠⠙⢄⠀⡸⠀You're breathtaking

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