[In the past he'd have lashed out at this point and gotten petty, because his lack of communication about what he was thinking and feeling would make it so one of his friends came at him with a mindset that bashed against what he felt.]
[But he's grown over time.]
[So his voice is taut like a bowstring ready to break, but it doesn't snap. It stays quiet, he doesn't yell, he doesn't lash out and try to hurt. It's tense and a little pained, but without being accusatory.]
[He didn't want to talk about this like they owed him anything, didn't want to ever hold it over their heads, make them feel indebted. But sometimes it bothers him that it's something his friends never really think about when they ask things of him, or prod at him, or tease him, or just not quite get where he's coming from or going through.]
[He doesn't expect them to be grateful but he does expect them to understand. Instead of getting angry, though, for once he explains where his head is at. He's a different toy than he was a decade ago.]
I already factored in what all of you [not "we"] wanted. I factored in how you'd have been up in Andy's attic in the dark, not sure when you'd be taken down again or if you'd be yard saled. I factored in Jessie having to be stuck in a box, about how you might have your box pinned down by another box, so you couldn't even get out and move around. I factored in that boxes in the attic sometimes get thrown away by accident.
[He'd thought about the contingencies and the worst case scenarios. He'd been a good leader who worried more about the well being of the group than himself.]
I factored all of that in and now everyone has a second chance, right now, no being stuck in the dark, with Bonnie.
[He bristles with tension, shows a rare bit of grief on his face, for what he still feels like he gave up. It's something he'd only ever show his best friend, due to a bond that started when they'd opened up and been vulnerable in a way you only could be while trapped in a crate and strapped to a rocket.]
[He'd been a favorite toy, so loved Andy wanted to take him to college. He'd been so loved he'd already been passed down from one Davis to the next. He'd been so loved there was a very strong chance he'd have been passed down to Andy's child - special, because it was dad's.]
[It wasn't certain because nothing ever was but after giving up that strong chance to keep his friends out of the attic, and then be asked to, what, hide in the attic? Gather dust in a closet? Sneak around behind furniture to avoid getting caught? Instead of being loved by another child?]
[It stings, having someone not seem to notice that he'd sacrificed his near-sure chance for theirs.]
[He finally gets stubborn, hand curled at his chest.]
If she doesn't want me, if she gives me away, I don't think there's anything wrong with wanting my second chance too.
[Asserting his needs and wants for once and just saying them - apparently you can teach an old toy at least a few new tricks.]
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[But he's grown over time.]
[So his voice is taut like a bowstring ready to break, but it doesn't snap. It stays quiet, he doesn't yell, he doesn't lash out and try to hurt. It's tense and a little pained, but without being accusatory.]
[He didn't want to talk about this like they owed him anything, didn't want to ever hold it over their heads, make them feel indebted. But sometimes it bothers him that it's something his friends never really think about when they ask things of him, or prod at him, or tease him, or just not quite get where he's coming from or going through.]
[He doesn't expect them to be grateful but he does expect them to understand. Instead of getting angry, though, for once he explains where his head is at. He's a different toy than he was a decade ago.]
I already factored in what all of you [not "we"] wanted. I factored in how you'd have been up in Andy's attic in the dark, not sure when you'd be taken down again or if you'd be yard saled. I factored in Jessie having to be stuck in a box, about how you might have your box pinned down by another box, so you couldn't even get out and move around. I factored in that boxes in the attic sometimes get thrown away by accident.
[He'd thought about the contingencies and the worst case scenarios. He'd been a good leader who worried more about the well being of the group than himself.]
I factored all of that in and now everyone has a second chance, right now, no being stuck in the dark, with Bonnie.
[He bristles with tension, shows a rare bit of grief on his face, for what he still feels like he gave up. It's something he'd only ever show his best friend, due to a bond that started when they'd opened up and been vulnerable in a way you only could be while trapped in a crate and strapped to a rocket.]
[He'd been a favorite toy, so loved Andy wanted to take him to college. He'd been so loved he'd already been passed down from one Davis to the next. He'd been so loved there was a very strong chance he'd have been passed down to Andy's child - special, because it was dad's.]
[It wasn't certain because nothing ever was but after giving up that strong chance to keep his friends out of the attic, and then be asked to, what, hide in the attic? Gather dust in a closet? Sneak around behind furniture to avoid getting caught? Instead of being loved by another child?]
[It stings, having someone not seem to notice that he'd sacrificed his near-sure chance for theirs.]
[He finally gets stubborn, hand curled at his chest.]
If she doesn't want me, if she gives me away, I don't think there's anything wrong with wanting my second chance too.
[Asserting his needs and wants for once and just saying them - apparently you can teach an old toy at least a few new tricks.]