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Papyrus looked at the pasta.
The pasta gazed back.
“S-senpai…” the pasta stammered. “...why are you looking at me like that?”
Papyrus did not know what to say. All his life, he had cherished the allure of spaghetti, the way it elegantly curved as it cooked, the way the sauce glistened in the dim kitchen light, the way the noodles wiggled slightly on the plate when he wiggled the plate slightly…
But today, he was not feeling like himself.
For the first time in his life, Papyrus did not want to eat spaghetti for dinner.
“Spaghetti-kun,” he whispered. “This is all my fault. I crafted you with love and fervor, but…” he looked away. He could not handle the sad way the pasta hugged itself from all directions, staring at him in confusion. Guilt ate at the skeleton’s ribs the way he should have been eating his culinary delight. “…I led you on,” he continued. “I gave you false hope that you would be consumed, but I--” his voice cracked a little, “I, the great Papyrus, have failed to deliver your dreams to you, or your tasty wheat-based products to my insides.”
The noodles gasped lightly. “Papyrus-senpai, w-what are you saying?”
Papyrus shut his eyes, the pain of his own betrayal written across his face. “I do not feel the same way you feel about me, Spaghetti-kun. I am terribly sorry for leading you on.”
The pasta dish barely choked back a sob. “D…don’t feel regretti… be friends with spaghetti?” the pasta offered pitifully.
“No,” the tall skeleton rasped. “It cannot be so.” The pasta, defeated, somehow managed to look even more limp than before. That is, until Papyrus suddenly grabbed the plate and lifted it from the counter. The pasta would have stiffened in fear if it was physically possible.
“Senpai? What are you doing?” they pleaded.
“I have no other choice. This must be our final goodbye.” A new resolve had taken hold in Papyrus’ voice and a shadow darkened his face. The spaghetti did not like where this was going. “This is the most difficult thing I have ever had to do, but I promise it hurts me much more than it hurts you.”
“P-Papyrus, wait!” spaghetti-kun beckoned fearfully. Papyrus was holding the dish over the sink, a single tear rolling down his cheekbone. Sobs emanated from the pasta in full force.
“Please,” Papyrus whispered, “don’t cry because I won’t eat you. After all… I don’t even have a stomach.”
He tipped the noodles into the drain. “Goodbye.”
He flipped on the garbage disposal. He shut his eyesockets tightly, trying vainly to focus on the mechanical whirring instead of the noodles’ desparate wails. When the last tendril of spaghetti finally slipped down the drain, he let the plate fall out of his hand with a clatter. Shudders racked his bones and he fell to his knees, sobbing and clutching at the counter for support.
Memories from half an hour ago flashed across his mind: the way the sauce had simmered; the way the noodles clung shyly to the bottom of the pot as he’d drained the water; the way the steam had curled invitingly into the air. And it had all led to this. He, the Great Papyrus, had become something terrible. The days of canoodling were over. He had become an impasta.
As he cried, his vision darkened, his grip on the counter slackened, his voice began to fade…
Papyrus fell into a grief-induced slumber.
He regretti’d all his decisions.