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Listen. Before you judge me, just know I was going through a very emotional phase of my life.
I had a crush.
Not just any crush.
He was tall, mysterious, soft-spoken, smelled like forest and coffee, wore chunky sweaters and had that sad, poetic-boy stare like he was always thinking about climate change or heartbreak.
I saw him every morning at the café near my office. He always ordered a plain black coffee, no sugar. Because he was emotionally damaged, obviously.
He looked like the type of guy who says, "I don’t believe in love anymore..." while staring out the window during a thunderstorm.
So naturally, I fell in love.
I called him "Mr. Autumn." I didn't know his name, but it felt right. 🍂
I tried everything—dropping my phone near his feet, pretending to like black coffee, even once fake sneezed just to see if he’d say bless you.
He didn’t.
So rude. So hot.
Then one day… he stopped showing up.
No goodbye. No final latte. No explanation.
I spiraled. I went through the five stages of heartbreak over a man I never even spoke to.
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Enter: Dog Shelter.
Because what heals a broken heart?
A puppy. Duh.
The staff showed me this one scruffy golden retriever. Floppy ears. Sad eyes. Looked like he read Russian literature and had emotional depth.
I was like: omg... he looks like Mr. Autumn in dog form.
The shelter lady said: “He’s a bit... odd. He doesn’t bark. He just stares. Like… really stares.”
Perfect. I signed the adoption papers faster than my GPA dropped in college.
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First week home:
The dog—who I named Pumpkin Spice Trauma Boy (Pumpkin for short)—refused to eat kibble.
Only drank black coffee from my mug when I wasn’t looking.
Also, he sat on the windowsill and stared dramatically out like he was longing for something... or someone.
I swear to God, he sighed.
Like a real human sigh. The “I once loved and it ruined me” kind of sigh.
Weird, right?
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Second week:
He started typing on my laptop.
WITH. HIS. PAWS.
At first, I thought it was random mashing.
Until I saw the screen:
“It’s me.”
“Don’t freak out.”
“This is really awkward.”
I screamed. Pumpkin fell off the chair. We made eye contact. And then he—blushed?
Turns out… MY DOG WAS MY CRUSH.
Long story short, Mr. Autumn was cursed by a jealous barista witch (don’t ask) and turned into a dog until someone “loved him purely and adopted him without knowing his identity.”
Which I guess I did.
So now I live with the love of my life… who still can’t turn back into a man.
He pees on my rug but also reads Pablo Neruda with me. He growls at Tinder notifications. Once brought me a stick and I swear it looked like a proposal.
I don’t know if I need therapy or a priest.
But hey, at least he didn’t ghost me.
He just barked.
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