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The late afternoon sun casts an orange and gold glow on the sidewalks of New York. You’re walking home, humming a little tune, clutching your favorite tote bag that has embroidered flowers and a stitched patch featuring a cute cartoon mascot. It’s been a good day, filled with the satisfaction that comes from a successful treasure hunt.
Inside the tote, nestled amongst your usual essentials, is the prize: a small, perfectly square box. It’s the reason for the extra spring in your step, the silly grin on your face. You’d been searching for this specific blind box series—the limited-edition Cozy Cumulus Pals—for weeks. They’d vanished from online stores almost instantly.
According to rumors, only a few brick-and-mortar shops had received any stock. You’d almost given up hope after striking out at two different hobby stores last weekend. But today, on a whim, you’d ducked into that tiny import shop tucked away on a side street. And there it was: only one box left. You’d snatched it immediately, the cheerful, pastel packaging feeling like a tiny victory in your hands.
Your heart had given a little leap as the cashier scanned your purchase. She hadn’t batted an eye at you as you practically vibrated with excitement. But to you, your acquisition felt momentous. And now, walking home, you resist the constant urge to check if the box is still safely inside your tote.
You can almost feel its light weight, imagine the crinkle of the plastic wrap. Which character would it be? Pillow Puff? Naptime Nimbus? Or the rarest, the rainbow variant of Sleepy Stratus? The anticipation is a delicious little hum beneath your skin.
A cab honks impatiently, pulling you back to the bustling street for a moment. You sidestep a hurried commuter, tightening your grip on the tote’s strap. Just a few more blocks. Then, home, a cup of tea, and the delightful little ritual of unboxing your long-awaited, incredibly cute find.
Yes, it’s definitely been a good day.
Suddenly, your foot catches on an uneven crack in the pavement you didn’t notice. Gravity takes over and you stumble, a gasp escaping you as the contents of your bag—carelessly left unzipped in your happy distraction—spill onto the sidewalk. Papers flutter, your wallet skids a few feet away, a tube of lip balm rolls out of sight.
And the thing that makes your heart plummet the most is your treasured keychain, the one with the charm shaped like a fluffy alpaca with rosy cheeks, bouncing precariously close to the gaping maw of a storm drain grate.
“No, no, no!” The words burst out, laced with genuine distress. You scramble to gather your belongings, dropping to your knees, ignoring the scrape of the ground.
You reach for the keychain, your heart sinking as you see it teetering on the edge of the grate—and you know you won’t be able to grab it in time.
Before panic can truly set in, a huge shadow falls over you. You freeze, mid-reach, and slowly look up. Standing there, blocking the sun, is the largest person you have ever seen. He’s incredibly broad-shouldered and … green? He wears some kind of red bandana mask over his eyes, along with wraps. Or whatever they are.
But before you can process the sheer strangeness of his appearance, his massive, three-fingered hand darts down with surprising speed. He deftly scoops up the tiny keychain, rescuing it nanoseconds before it’s about to tumble into the depths of the drain.
He straightens up, holding the delicate charm carefully between his thick thumb and forefinger, and looks down at you. Behind the mask, you see his eyes—surprisingly expressive dark pools—widen slightly. There’s a flicker of something you can’t quite place. Surprise? Alarm? You tilt your head.
He seems almost … flustered.
He holds out his hand, offering the keychain back. His movements are careful, hesitant, as if he’s worried a sudden move might make you bolt. “Uh,” he starts, his voice a deep rumble, but much softer than you’d expect from someone his size. “This … this yours?”
You’re still a bit stunned by the near loss of your keychain and the presence of the guy who saved it. Finally, you find your voice, albeit shaky. “Y-yes! Oh my gosh!” you say, your cheeks flushing with embarrassment. As you take back the keychain, your fingers brush against his, feeling the cool, slightly rough texture.
He helps you collect the rest of your things, and you stuff them back into your bag—making sure to zip it up properly this time.
“Thank you so much!” you say. “I thought it was gone for sure.”
“Yeah. No problem,” he rumbles again, his voice still low and gravelly, but definitely tinged with … discomfort? He takes a half-step back, clearly signaling his intention to leave.
“Wait!” you blurt out, feeling a sudden need to acknowledge the sheer oddity and kindness of the moment. “That was… really amazing. How you caught it. I mean—” You gesture vaguely with the hand holding the alpaca keychain. “—you’re incredibly fast.”
Now that the immediate crisis is over, you take in his appearance again. The green isn’t paint; it looks … real. And you felt the almost scaly texture of it. And the shell—wait, is that a shell strapped to his back?! It looks ridiculously heavy, yet he moved with an agility that defies his bulk just moments ago.
He shifts his weight, his gaze flicking down the street, then back to you, the awkwardness radiating off him in waves. He seems less like a menacing figure and more like someone caught doing something they weren’t supposed to, despite having just performed a random act of kindness.
The question escapes before you can stop it, fueled by unfiltered curiosity. “Um … sorry, this is maybe a weird question, but … what are you?”
You see him physically recoil, just slightly, his posture stiffening as he blushes. He looks away sharply, down the street—anywhere but at you for a few beats. Then his gaze snaps back, masked eyes wide.
“Oh! Uh, yeah—costume!” He coughs, forcing the word out. It sounds unnatural, like he’s tasted something bad. “Big … comic fan convention nearby! Ya know, sci-fi stuff.” He gestures vaguely down the street, though you don’t recall seeing any signs for a con.
But hey, it’s New York. Stranger things happen before breakfast. “Wow,” you say, in a sort of bewildered admiration. “It’s incredible. Seriously, the detail is amazing! The skin texture looks—and feels—so real.”
Again, he blushes. “Uh, yeah,” he says, rubbing the nape of his neck. “Thank you.”
You realize you’re still holding the keychain. “But thank you again. Really. You saved my favorite little alpaca.” You hold up the fluffy charm again.
He looks at it, then back at your face. He seems to be studying you, taking in your eyes, the way you tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The nervousness is back, rolling off him in waves. He looks profoundly uncomfortable, yet unable to look away. It’s surprisingly sweet.
In a giant-green-man-in-a-costume kind of way.
Because who did he think he was fooling?
“N-no problem,” he finally stammers. “Just … uh … watch where you’re goin’, okay? Sidewalks are … rough.”
“I definitely will now,” you promise, offering a small, shy smile. “Thanks again, um …” You trail off, realizing you don’t know his name.
“Raph,” he blurts out, before looking startled, as if the word escaped without permission. “Name’s Raph.”
You tell him your name. “It was nice meeting you, Raph.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs. He then repeats your name softly under his breath, as if testing the sound of it. “Nice … nice meeting you, too.” From behind the mask, his intense and strangely vulnerable eyes still lock on yours.
Then, an awkward silence stretches between you. You clutch your bag, suddenly very aware of the surrounding city sounds returning to focus. He opens his mouth slightly as if to speak, then closes it again. Almost as if he wants to say something more, but has no idea what.
“Well,” you say finally, breaking the spell, “I should probably get home. Dinner and all that.” You tilt your head toward where you were originally going. “But thank you, Raph. You’re a lifesaver.”
“Sure. Yeah. No problem,” he says, taking a half-step back, as if forcing himself to give you space. “Get home safe.”
You nod, offer one last quick smile, then turn and start walking away. Curiosity compels you to glance back over your shoulder after a few paces. Raph is still standing exactly where you left him, a giant green statue silhouetted against the setting sun, watching you go. He looks strangely … lonely.
You feel a pang of sympathy.
But what you don’t feel—or see—is the internal chaos erupting within Raph as your figure recedes down the street. You don’t feel the thunderous, frantic thump-thump-thump of his heart against his plastron, a feeling entirely new and almost terrifyingly strong. He just met you, just saw your shy smile, the way your eyes lit up when he rescued your keychain.
You don’t see how his entire world has tilted on its axis.
And detonated.
Wow, he thinks. She’s … she’s … wow.
Then the crushing weight of reality slams back down on him.
Costume? COSTUME?! The word screeches in his head, mocking his panicked lie. Smooth move, Raph. Real smooth.
But what else could he have possibly said? ‘Hey, thanks. But I’m actually a giant talking turtle mutated by alien ooze. Nice to meet you?’ Yeah, right. You’d have run screaming.
She’s human, the thought follows, cold and heavy. Beautiful, gentle. Human. And he’s … this. Green, hard-shelled, different. A monster in the eyes of the world.
He clenches his fists. This feeling—this fluttery, warm feeling in his chest—is completely foreign. Because a crush? On a human, who thinks he’s just some guy in a costume?
He lets out a long, shaky breath, his shoulders slumping. Confusion and a strange, aching sweetness war within him, making him feel dizzy. He stares down at his own large, green, three-fingered hands, then back up at the now-empty stretch of sidewalk where you stood just moments ago.
“What is Raph supposed to do now?” he murmurs.
He replays the encounter in his mind. You hadn’t recoiled in horror. You looked surprised, maybe a bit flustered. But not terrified.
And most importantly, you didn’t run.
He looks down at his hands again, the hands that saved your keychain, the hands you’d briefly touched without flinching. A new thought, small but persistent, flickers to life within him. Maybe being different didn’t have to mean being alone. And he doesn’t know how.
But he knows you’ll find each other again.