Andrew's Game Gallery

You are Andrew's wooden spoon, conducting a pot that is absolutely about to boil over — tap to keep the lid from rattling off while the Eyebrow of Judgment rises one millimetre for every second you fail.

You are the porch light at the end of the lane — hold yourself steady while the dark presses in from both sides, because two people are navigating entirely by you and one of them is about to lose their nerve.

You are the word 'Mum?' travelling downward through disputed plasterboard — tap to keep your syllable coherent as the joists absorb you, and reach her before the house forgets which floor it is.

You are Andrew's dotted connecting line, trying to reach the towel before the republic runs out of coffee.

You are Andrew's screwdriver, held perfectly still for eleven weeks, and today — finally, absurdly, with the coffee still warm — the hinge is one tap away from righteousness.

You are the second notification — identical to the first, but you are the one the universe sent to make sure — and you must fall from the top of the screen and land exactly on top of your twin before Andrew's nerve finishes deciding.

You are the pen. An adult hand keeps offering you to Lou. Hold your dignity perfectly still for 5 seconds and he will finally, reluctantly, accept you — but if your wobble of hope tips into eagerness even once, he will see it, and refuse you forever.