What a horrible thing to say. What a horrible thing to hear. Imagine spending hours with someone, wrapping them in your softest ropes, taking them to your favorite lunch spot where you're their best customer, leading them through the wonders of the arcade, kissing their hand, putting a plushie on their head, and at the end of it all, you're not at least friends?

Well, it's even worse when it's true. And it's even worster when you know it's almost certainly your own, silly fault.

It's hard, y'know? Going a long time without meeting a new friend. Waking up every day in a place where there are no new friends to meet. Carrying the safety of many much people, and yourself, and you're only a little sheep, and you've already dropped them all once, and they'll surely shatter if it happens again. Flashing your fangs without fumbling your floof.

Evil Space Sheepin' ain't easy. 

Well, Miss Fluffybiscuits, your lovely pet hops to it, and you, and your side, and the moment. There's a lot of ground between you and the show, and it's not gonna be filled with silence.

He tells you about cans. He tells you about hand-painted designs. He tells you about the many ways to brew coffee. He tells you about wishes he's been made to forget. He tells you about the bells in his wool. 

He speaks of vending machines. He speaks of eight rows of twelve cans nestled ten deep. He speaks of no less than twenty two unique designs. He speaks of long roads and boxes carefully packed. He speaks of a thirsty passerby who will never meet an artist.

Begging your pardon. He doesn't say it, because saying it would mean losing some of it, and that's not worth it. But you might not be the most beautiful thing he has seen today.

"...who was Elly?" Was. Was Elly. It's possible someone told him so. Possibly. "That's her on your phone, isn't it?" 

How many hours has it been since you last used it? Since he last had a chance to see?