Pruprurr

I need help with something, I adopted a cat recently and I have no idea on what do I name them

He's a very docile little man

Mc. Pur pur! You should name that kitty... Mr. Beans!

Flan no.

John Lennon, cena, wick,Price The third

Part 1

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You were utterly screwed.

It starts small—quiet, almost forgettable. A thought that drifts in when you’re brushing your teeth, when you’re staring at your phone, when the world goes still for just a second too long.

Simon.

It slips in easy.

Too easy.

You tell yourself it’s normal. You broke down in the middle of nowhere, some stranger helped you, fixed your car like it was nothing, called you something soft in that rough voice of his—

“dove.”

Anyone would think about that, right?

Anyone would replay it.

But it doesn’t stop.

That’s the problem.

It follows you home.

Sits in the passenger seat like something unseen, something patient. You catch yourself glancing over more than once, like you expect him to be there—elbow resting against the window, eyes half-lidded, watching the road like it belongs to him.

He isn’t.

Of course he isn’t.

But the feeling doesn’t leave.

That night, you lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.

Sleep doesn’t come.

Every time you close your eyes, it’s there again—the road, the quiet, the weight of his gaze when he looked at you like he was trying to figure something out.

Or maybe like he already had.

Your fingers curl in the sheets.

You remember his hands.

Grease-stained. Steady. Careful in a way that didn’t match the rest of him.

You imagine them again.

Not fixing your car this time.

Just—holding something. Holding you.

Your breath catches, soft and shallow in the dark.

“…stupid.” you whisper to yourself.

But It doesn’t stop.

It never stops.

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Days pass.

It gets worse.

You start looking for him without meaning to.

Every truck that passes, your eyes flick up. Every low voice in a store makes your head turn just slightly too fast. You catch glimpses of broad shoulders, dark hoodies, hands that almost look like his—

but never are.

It leaves something sour in your chest every time.

Like disappointment.

Like withdrawal.

You start replaying the moment more precisely now.

The way he said your name.

The way he paused when you said you were alone.

The way his voice changed—just slightly—when he called you dove.

That one sticks the most.

It sinks its teeth in and refuses to let go.

You hear it when you’re alone.

In the quiet.

In the spaces between thoughts.

“Take care, dove.”

Your stomach twists every time.

Not unpleasant.

Not at all.

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You start wondering things.

Dangerous things.

What he does when he’s not pulling over on empty roads.

Where he goes.

Who he is when no one’s looking.

If he thinks about you.

If he remembers your name the way you remember his.

Simon.

You say it under your breath sometimes, just to hear it.

You let it settle in your mouth like a flavor you don’t want gone.

It never feels like enough.

It gets to the point where it’s not just thoughts anymore.

It’s… need.

Not loud. Not frantic.

Just constant.

Desperate.

A low, steady pull that never quite loosens.

You find yourself retracing the road where it happened.

Once.

Then again.

Then a third time, slower.

Like maybe he’ll just be there again.

Like maybe he exists only in that stretch of empty road and nowhere else.

But the road stays empty.

And the quiet feels heavier now.

Mocking.

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You sit in your car afterward, engine idling.

Your fingers tap lightly against the steering wheel.

Thinking.

Really thinking.

“Okay..” you murmur.

You force yourself to be rational.

He knew what he was doing.

Not just basic knowledge—instinct.

The way his hands moved, the way he didn’t hesitate, didn’t guess.

He knew.

“…mechanic.” you say softly.

It clicks into place.

Of course.

He has to be.

No one is… just like that.

A small smile pulls at your mouth.

Relief mixes with something sharper. Anticipation.

Something like excitement.

Because now—

now he’s not just a ghost on a road.

Now he’s somewhere.

He’s Findable.

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The shop isn’t hard to find.

There’s only a few in town, and only one that feels… right.

You don’t know how to explain it.

Just a pull in your chest as you drive past it the first time. Something quiet but insistent.

You circle back.

Park across the street.

And just… sit there.

The building is nothing special. Rusted signage, garage doors half open, the distant sound of metal clinking and tools shifting.

Normal.

Completely normal.

But your pulse picks up anyway.

Your fingers tighten slightly around the steering wheel.

What are you even going to say?

“Hi, I’ve been thinking about you nonstop since you fixed my car on the side of the road like something out of a dream.”

You huff out a quiet breath.

“…I’m insane.”

But—

You get out of the car anyway.

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The air inside the shop is different.

Warmer. Thicker. Smells like oil and metal and something faintly electric.

Your footsteps slow as you step in, eyes adjusting to the dimmer light.

There are voices somewhere deeper in the garage. Tools clatter. A radio hums low in the background.

Normal.

Still normal.

Your heart doesn’t agree.

It’s beating too fast now. Too loud in your ears.

Your gaze drifts.

Cars lifted on racks. Open hoods. A man you don’t recognize moving past with a wrench in hand.

Not him.

Not him.

Not—

You take another step in.

And then—

There.

Across the shop.

Half-shadowed, leaning over the open hood of a car like the world narrows down to just that space and his hands.

Dark hoodie.

Sleeves pushed up.

Familiar, deliberate movements.

Your breath stops.

Like your body recognizes him before your mind can catch up.

He shifts slightly, and you see it—

the line of his shoulders, the tilt of his head—

Simon.

Your fingers curl at your sides.

Something in your chest pulls tight. Sharp. Certain.

Like this was always going to happen.

Like you were always going to find your way back to him.

He hasn’t noticed you yet.

Not fully.

But there’s a pause in his movement.

Subtle.

Like something just brushed the edge of his awareness.

Your pulse spikes.

You take one more step forward.

And this time—

his head turns.

Those eyes find you immediately.

No confusion.

No hesitation.

Just recognition.

Immediate.

Intent.

The air between you goes still.

Everything else—the noise, the movement, the other men working around you—fades into something distant and unimportant.

It’s just him.

Just you.

And the quiet, dangerous feeling that settles deep in your chest when his gaze sharpens slightly, like he’s seeing something he remembers too well.

Slowly, he straightens.

Wipes his hands on a rag without breaking eye contact.

And even from across the shop—

you feel it.

That same thread from the road.

Pulled tight again.

“…Dove.” he says it low enough that it shouldn’t carry—

but it does.

Your breath catches.

And you realize, standing there in the dim light with oil in the air and his eyes locked on yours—

you didn’t just come here to find him.

You came here because something in you knew he’d be waiting.

@changes (Edit: I already sent this to Tumblr Support under the feedback option. I encourage everyone to send feedback on how bad this feature actually is).

For years, the total note count on a post served as a universal metric of a piece of content's impact. Whether a user liked the original post or a reblog fifteen branches deep, that engagement flowed back to the source. This ensured that the original artist, writer, or editor received the full credit for the viral success of their work.

Under this new system, engagement is trapped within the specific reblog a user happens to see on their dashboard. If a massive, high-traffic blog reblogs a piece of art from a small creator, every like and reblog that occurs through that larger account stays with them. The original creator is left with a stagnant note count on their own dashboard while their work generates thousands of interactions for someone else.

Erasure of Creator Visibility

Instead of seeing one post with 10,000 notes, a creator may now have to hunt through dozens of different reblog chains to find where the conversation is actually happening.

If the notes no longer flow back to the original post, the creator loses the ability to see who is enjoying their work, what the tags say, and how the community is responding.

On a platform where engagement often dictates visibility, splitting that engagement into tiny, unlinked fractions makes it significantly harder for original works to gain momentum compared to the high-reach blogs that reblog them.

Incentivizing the "Big Blog" Monopoly

This system rewards accounts that have already established a large following at the direct expense of the smaller accounts that actually produce the content. It transforms reblogging from a method of sharing into a method of acquisition.

When a reblog functions as its own independent post with its own note count, the incentive to click through to the original source disappears. The platform is transitioning from a collaborative ecosystem into a standard social media feed where the person who posts the content last—not the person who made it—reaps the rewards.

Impact on Collaborative Conversations

Tumblr’s unique culture is built on the reblog chain: a chronological, evolving conversation. By allowing users to like or reblog "any part" of the chain as an independent entity, the platform is breaking the narrative thread.

If engagement is siloed into specific branches, the incentive to add to a conversation is replaced by an incentive to simply own a piece of the engagement. This change doesn't encourage conversation. It encourages the commodification of individual posts within a chain, making it harder for the original voice to ever be heard over the noise of the rebloggers.

The Disincentive to Create

Perhaps the most damaging aspect of this update is the psychological toll on the creative community. When the platform actively diverts credit and engagement away from the source, it destroys the motivation to share original work at all.

For many, the reward for posting is seeing how far their work travels. If that travel is now invisible or attributed to others, the labor of creating becomes thankless.

This system makes creators want to share nothing. If the platform is built to harvest a creator's effort for the benefit of curator blogs, the logical response is to stop providing the raw material. I am one leaning into this category. Without us creators, the curator blogs have nothing to curate.

I need help with something, I adopted a cat recently and I have no idea on what do I name them

He's a very docile little man

Mc. Pur pur! You should name that kitty... Mr. Beans!

Flan no.