We made a bed from forgotten passwords, threadbare phrases left behind by sleepy minds — a mattress stuffed with half-remembered logins, security questions whose answers we stopped knowing long ago.

You laid the first sheet: flamingo67!, once the key to your summer job email, now softer than any cotton, folded by your teenage hands.

I brought the blanket — iloveyouMom1984, misspelled and vulnerable, but still warm in a quiet, embarrassing way.

The pillows were reset links, feathered with potential, always promising a fresh start, a new you waiting just beyond a click.

We curled up in two-factor silence, the kind where you touch my cheek and ask if I'm still the same person who remembered your first Wi-Fi name. (It was Marshmallow_Dreams.) I said yes, but the CAPTCHA disagreed.

Outside, the world scrolled by, endless updates and midnight notifications, but in our encryption, we were safe — two firewalls tangled like limbs, two outdated operating systems finding compatibility in the absurd.

Each morning, we wake with 401 Unauthorized written across our skin, and laugh. We were never meant to be accessed by anyone else.