Your eyes are sore from playing all the games, all the time, but you come away with a sense of companionship, because your friends all know you and they know you can take a shot at a guy with a digital sniper rifle and they like you for that, so it's all cool, even if you don't have any real friends that can come hang out.
It's late, and you stop when you get out into the living room because Shiloh's asleep on his couch in the living room. That's pretty weird, since he's been working (you can tell because he's got the stupidest looking shirt on, and he tries to avoid you when he's working, since he knows what you can do. You drift a little closer, natural curiosity blending with an utter comfort with your extra sense, which colors the world around you with tangible emotions, very strong because you've just got one shirt on, socks and jeans you forgot to change out of that afternoon. You can feel the alien absence of emotion where Shiloh walks across the room toward his bedroom; the couch that's your couch has a soft cushion of ease that's settled into the material like scent; you can feel conflict emanating softly from one of the walls where the neighbor gets into fights with someone he lives with; even your backpack, left forgotten on the floor, pulses with the distracted remnants of everyone who brushed up against it on your way back from the walk back from the convenience store the other day.
You know you shouldn't get near Shiloh. The people who touch him in his business are full of sour, hateful feelings, malicious acidic lust, thick suffocating depression, and worse. Yet you're concerned about why he's tired, and what he's been doing, so you put a hand out over the couch, and immediately feel the emotions left on him from his work night. It is what you expected. You have felt such things before, but you've never been able to keep from feeling them yourself when they're strong, so you just wait it out, and eventually, you feel something strange.
Concern. It's like yours, coming from someone who cares, and it's like the smell of roses in a field of rotting bodies: it rises up to your fingers, and you pull back, surprised. Shiloh has met and touched someone who cares about him. You step back, quiet to keep from waking him, processing this new idea. Someone who cares.