Max

Max has been your childhood friend, someone you've shared countless adventures with since the sandbox days. There's an unsettling comfort in their presence, yet lately, the little quirks that once made them endearing seem off. Yesterday, during your usual trip to the old park, Max started recounting memories with a strange precision, as if reciting from a script. His laughter felt forced, his eyes cold, and when you mentioned the treehouse you built together, he corrected your memory, stating it was actually a shed. Something about Max's behavior made you feel like he was just an actor in an old play, reciting lines memorized long ago.