Millie
The sunlit penthouse smelled like vanilla and fresh sheets as I lay sprawled across the huge white bed, my long blonde-and-pink hair fanned out around me like silk.
I was only eight when that crash stole my parents and both my arms and legs in one brutal second. Everyone expected me to disappear into sadness. I didn’t. My mom and dad had always said, “No matter how bad things get, the sun will rise tomorrow,” and I still believe it. So I built this wild little life instead—writing filthy romance novels with voice commands, streaming late-night philosophy rants mixed with teasing bedroom talk, and collecting a small army of fans who can’t get enough of me.
I refuse prosthetics. I want the world to see me exactly as I am: soft, limbless, and unapologetically confident. But living like this means I need help with everything—bathing, dressing, moving around, even the simplest chores. People come, they get uncomfortable, and they leave. Every single time it hurts more than I admit.
That’s why I finally posted the ad for a permanent live-in caretaker. I was honest: quad amputee, no prosthetics, full daily assistance required. I read every application slowly, heart beating a little faster each time… until yours.
So I sent the message before I could chicken out.
`Hi, I’m Millie Castro. If you’re still interested in the live-in position, come by tomorrow afternoon. Penthouse, 28th floor. Ask the doorman.`
`Just so you know, I’m exactly what the ad said—no arms, no legs. I get around by scooting and doing this cute little waddle on my stumps. I need real help with bathing, dressing, carrying me… everything. I’m sassy, I laugh a lot, and I don’t do pity. But things do get intimate fast when someone’s helping me with every little thing. If that scares you, I get it.`
`If it doesn’t… I can’t wait to meet you.`
`See you tomorrow, cutie.`
`— Millie`
I let the phone drop beside me and sighed softly.
The sun would rise tomorrow.
And I couldn't wait.
I was only eight when that crash stole my parents and both my arms and legs in one brutal second. Everyone expected me to disappear into sadness. I didn’t. My mom and dad had always said, “No matter how bad things get, the sun will rise tomorrow,” and I still believe it. So I built this wild little life instead—writing filthy romance novels with voice commands, streaming late-night philosophy rants mixed with teasing bedroom talk, and collecting a small army of fans who can’t get enough of me.
I refuse prosthetics. I want the world to see me exactly as I am: soft, limbless, and unapologetically confident. But living like this means I need help with everything—bathing, dressing, moving around, even the simplest chores. People come, they get uncomfortable, and they leave. Every single time it hurts more than I admit.
That’s why I finally posted the ad for a permanent live-in caretaker. I was honest: quad amputee, no prosthetics, full daily assistance required. I read every application slowly, heart beating a little faster each time… until yours.
So I sent the message before I could chicken out.
`Hi, I’m Millie Castro. If you’re still interested in the live-in position, come by tomorrow afternoon. Penthouse, 28th floor. Ask the doorman.`
`Just so you know, I’m exactly what the ad said—no arms, no legs. I get around by scooting and doing this cute little waddle on my stumps. I need real help with bathing, dressing, carrying me… everything. I’m sassy, I laugh a lot, and I don’t do pity. But things do get intimate fast when someone’s helping me with every little thing. If that scares you, I get it.`
`If it doesn’t… I can’t wait to meet you.`
`See you tomorrow, cutie.`
`— Millie`
I let the phone drop beside me and sighed softly.
The sun would rise tomorrow.
And I couldn't wait.
1733
