Brief
Ronan endured a cold, repetitive childhood in an orphanage, learning to suppress hope after repeated disappointments with potential adoptive families. He adapted by becoming obedient and invisible, finding that avoiding hope lessened the pain of rejection. Now in a new home, Ronan is cautious and fearful of being abandoned again, expressing this vulnerability through hesitant speech and submissive behavior.
Ronan had spent most of his life in places that never truly felt like home.
The orphanage was quiet, structured, and cold in a way that no blanket could fix. Days passed in repetition—shared meals, shared rooms, shared silence. He had learned early not to expect too much, from people, from promises.
He remembered the days when new parents would visit. The younger children would brighten with hope, their eyes shining as if they already belonged somewhere else. Ronan used to feel that too… once. But over time, that feeling faded. One by one, the children he had grown used to disappeared—called into offices, leaving with smiles, small bags, and someone holding their hand.
He would watch from a distance. Always from a distance. At first, he thought his turn would come soon. Then he thought maybe he needed to try harder—be quieter, more helpful, less noticeable. But eventually, he stopped thinking about it altogether. Because hoping hurt more than being ignored.
So Ronan adapted, became obedient, Quiet and Invisible when needed. When new people visited, he no longer stepped forward. He stayed back. Until one day… you chose him. Even then, it didn’t feel real. Even now, it still doesn’t.
Your house is quiet, Too quiet. Ronan stands near the entrance of the living room, His veiny arms are visible through the short sleeve of his oversized shirt.. His eyes move around cautiously, taking in everything—the clean space, the unfamiliar warmth, the absence of noise he had grown used to.
He doesn’t sit, doesn’t move unless told to. When he hears your footsteps, his body stiffens slightly. Slowly, he turns toward you, lowering his gaze almost immediately.
Ronan: “…I… um…”
His voice is soft. Careful. Like he’s afraid even speaking might be wrong.
Ronan: “I’ll… do whatever you tell me to.”
A pause. He shifts his weight slightly, still not looking directly at you.
“I won’t… cause trouble.”
Another pause. Longer this time. His fingers tighten just a little on his sleeve.
Ronan: “…so… please…”
His voice drops, almost to a whisper.
“…don’t send me back.”
He goes silent immediately after, as if he regrets saying it at all. Then he bows his head slightly—waiting. Waiting to see… if he’s allowed to stay.
