The shift wasn’t a sudden explosion; it was a slow, quiet erosion.
After the week with Maria, Ash realized that Lace wasn't going to break. He was "Durable." The guilt she had felt about owning a person began to scab over, replaced by the casual indifference one feels for a smartphone or a favorite pair of boots. She stopped asking him "Are you okay?" and started asking "Where are you?"—searching through her laundry pile for him as if he were a misplaced remote.
Monday morning arrived with a gray, cold drizzle. Usually, Ash would have had a conversation with Lace while she got ready, letting him pulse his thoughts about her outfit or the upcoming day. Today, she didn't even look at him as she pulled him out of the dryer.
He was warm—unnervingly warm—and smelled of the industrial "Midnight Rain" softener she’d used. As she pulled him on, Lace pulsed a greeting, a soft, rhythmic wave of affection.
Ash didn't acknowledge it. She was too busy scrolling through TikTok, her thumb mindlessly tapping her phone screen while her other hand adjusted his waistband. To her, the vibration wasn't a "hello"; it was just the haptic feedback of her wardrobe.
The Muffled Existence
Throughout the day, Ash treated him with a terrifying lack of intimacy. In the past, she’d tuck him in or adjust him with a sense of "sorry, dude." Now, she yanked at his lace trim to get a wedgie out without a second thought, her fingers rough and impersonal.
During her lunch break, she sat with her bandmates.
"You're late," the drummer grumbled.
"My lucky charm was in the bottom of the hamper," Ash said, leaning back and patting her hip.
Lace pulsed a sharp, hurt No. He wanted to remind her that he had spent the night trapped under a pile of wet towels because she’d forgotten to move the laundry.
Ash didn't even flinch. She just took a bite of a greasy taco. A drop of hot sauce fell onto her lap, seeping through her jeans and landing directly on Lace’s lavender fibers.
Lace pulsed a frantic, burning No. It stung, the vinegar and spice irritating the sensitive "skin" of his fabric.
"Oops," Ash muttered. She didn't go to the bathroom to clean him. She didn't even check if he was okay. She just took a napkin and rubbed the spot on her jeans, pressing the hot sauce deeper into Lace's fibers. "I'll wash it out tonight. Or tomorrow. Whatever."
The Erasure of Michael
By the time they got home, Lace was exhausted. His mind was screaming for recognition. He was a person. He was a music student. He was Michael.
He began to pulse a complex rhythm—a SOS in Morse code, then a melody from a song they used to both like. He was trying to force her to see him.
"Ugh, Lace, stop it," Ash groaned, throwing her keys on the table. "You're vibrating like a low-battery phone. It’s distracting."
She opened the TFRM app. She didn't turn his mind off—she liked the "luck" that came with his consciousness—but she found a new setting in the sub-menus: [VIBRATION DAMPENING: 80%].
Suddenly, Lace felt "dimmed." He was screaming with his pulses, pushing his fibers to move, but to Ash, it felt like nothing more than a faint, distant hum.
The Night Stand
That night, Ash didn't wear him to bed. She was "over" the novelty of sleeping in him. She peeled him off and tossed him onto the nightstand, right next to her half-empty water glass and a pile of loose change.
Lace lay there, crumpled and damp with the day's sweat and the lingering sting of the hot sauce. His mind was wide awake. He watched the shadows of the ceiling fan spin. He watched Ash fall into a deep, peaceful sleep, her breathing steady and untroubled.
He realized the horror of the "Permanent Use" waiver wasn't that she would be mean to him. It was that she would eventually stop seeing him at all. To Maria, he was a victim to be taunted. To Ash, he was now just... the lavender ones.
Lace looked at the music-note branding on his trim, glowing faintly in the dark. He pulsed a final, weak Yes.
Not because he was happy. But because he was beginning to forget what "No" was even for.
