The login screen looked the same as it always had — that bright orange cat smiling up from the corner, like it always knew what you were about to create. I hovered over my profile picture. Two years. Two years of projects, games, and stories. Five years of figuring out how “if” blocks worked, how to make characters jump, how to make people laugh. And now, it was time to go. I scrolled through my old projects — the clunky first one where the cat just bounced around forever; the one where I spent all night animating a tiny pixelated dragon; the one that somehow made it to the front page, and I couldn’t stop smiling for a week. Each one felt like a memory I could open and replay. Each comment from friends — the “nice game!” or “you can do it!” — was still there, frozen in time. I remembered the community. The random chats, the collabs, the way everyone cheered for each other even if the code was messy. Scratch wasn’t just a site — it was where I learned how to create, how to share, how to believe that something small I made could matter to someone else. But now, the orange cat felt different. Not wrong — just distant, like it was waving goodbye. I typed one last message in my “About Me”: “Thank you for everything. You taught me how to dream in code.” Then I clicked “Log out.” The screen faded, the page refreshed, and the cat disappeared. For a long moment, I just sat there, staring at the empty login box. Then I smiled through the ache. Because even though I was leaving Scratch… Scratch wasn’t leaving me.
JK LOOOOOLLLLLL IF U FELL FOR THIS U DUMB SRY
