If I had a fictional boyfriend to celebrate my 29th with, here’s what he’d do: Materialise in a swirl of shadows and lean on my doorframe like, “I don’t usually celebrate things, but you matter.” Give me a meaningful gift, not just a candle or a book voucher. He’d hand over the shattered shard of the first soul he ever spared, now shaped into a necklace. “It reminded me of you,” he’d say, like that’s normal. Whisk me off on an adventure. Dinner? Cute. But how about a surprise portal, a cursed map, and his and her matching katanas named George and Mildred? “Wear boots,” he’d whisper ominously.
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