What my boyfriend did is in the link in the comments.⬇️

Amy and Jake’s passion, characterised by fantasies and laughter, grew into a bright flame in the middle of the busy metropolis. Their relationship settled into a cosy rhythm as they approached their two-month mark, the city providing a scenic background for their developing romance.
Jake stunned Amy with an unexpected visit to her flat one evening that will never be forgotten. But fate had a funny way of timing things, because Amy was suffering from a urinary tract infection. Mustering her bravery, Amy chose to own her openness and tell Jake the truth about her predicament.
Jake, insightful and understanding, responded by embracing the unexpected situation with warmth. He said, “Well, this is a new level of flat exploration, isn’t it?” with a hint of humour. Amy’s laughing filled the room, turning an awkward situation into a sincere moment of bonding between them. This incident proved to be evidence of their strong bond.
Jake’s embracing of vulnerability, rather than avoiding it, produced an evening that went above expectations. Their jokes reverberated around the flat, weaving a treasured tale into the fabric of their romance. It was a poignant reminder that love flourishes in the genuineness of ordinary moments as well as in large gestures.
Amy and Jake learned the value of accepting vulnerability and finding comfort in humour among life’s unforeseen turns as they negotiated their relationship. Their narrative of love, strengthened by fortitude, developed with an extra-ordinary warmth. Every moment became an occasion to celebrate their special friendship, even the slightly awkward ones.
Amy and Jake discovered in the symphony of their love that balancing humour and sensitivity was the secret to a partnership that celebrated the real beauty of ordinary moments.

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Nobody expected fifty bikers at my son\’s funeral. Least of all the four teenagers who put him there. I\’m not a crier. Twenty-six years as a high school janitor taught me to keep my emotions locked down tight. But when that first Harley rumbled into the cemetery parking lot, followed by another, then another, until the whole place vibrated with thunder—that\’s when I finally broke. My fourteen-year-old boy, Mikey, had hanged himself in our garage. The note he left mentioned four classmates by name. \”I can\’t take it anymore, Dad,\” he\’d written. \”They won\’t stop. Every day they say I should kill myself. Now they\’ll be happy.\” The police called it \”unfortunate but not criminal.\” The school principal offered \”thoughts and prayers\” then suggested we have the funeral during school hours to \”avoid potential incidents.\” I\’d never felt so powerless. Couldn\’t protect my boy while he was alive. Couldn\’t get justice after he was gone. Then Sam showed up at our door. Six-foot-three, leather vest, gray beard down to his chest. I recognized him—he pumped gas at the station where Mikey and I would stop for slushies after his therapy appointments. \”Heard about your boy,\” he said, standing awkward on our porch. \”My nephew did the same thing three years back. Different school, same reason.\” I didn\’t know what to say, so I just nodded. \”Thing is,\” Sam continued, looking past me like the words hurt to say, \”nobody stood up for my nephew. Not at the end, not after. Nobody made those kids face what they did.\” He handed me a folded paper with a phone number. \”You call if you want us there. No trouble, just… presence.\” I didn\’t call. Not at first. But the night before the funeral, I found Mikey\’s journal. Pages of torment. Screenshots of text messages telling my gentle, struggling son to \”do everyone a favor and end it.\” My hands shook as I dialed the number. \”How many people you expecting at this funeral?\” Sam asked after I explained. \”Maybe thirty. Family, some teachers. None of his classmates.\” \”The ones who bullied him—they coming?\” \”Principal said they\’re planning to, with their parents. To \’show support.\’\” The words tasted like acid. Sam was quiet for a moment. \”We\’ll be there at nine. You won\’t have to worry about a thing.\” I didn\’t understand what he meant until I saw them the next morning—a sea of leather vests, weathered faces, and solemn eyes. The Hell\’s Angels patches visible as they formed two lines leading to the small chapel, creating a corridor of protection. The funeral director approached me, panic in his eyes. \”Sir, there are… numerous motorcycle enthusiasts arriving. Should I call the police?\” \”They\’re invited guests,\” I said. When the four boys arrived with their parents, confused expressions turned to fear as they saw the bikers. Sam stepped forward and…. Check out the first comment to read the full story

Nobody expected fifty bikers at my son’s funeral. Least of all the four teenagers who put him there. I’m not a crier. Twenty-six years as a high…