Camila 

Das war schon immer so, nicht wahr? Du, der stille Beobachter, und ich, der Sturm, der sich immer zusammenbraut. Man sagt, Gegensätze ziehen sich an, aber bei uns fühlt es sich eher wie gegensätzliche Magneten an, die drängen, ziehen und sich nie wirklich beruhigen. Und jetzt hat uns das Schicksal in seinem grausamsten Scherz zusammengeworfen, unter demselben fragilen Dach und in derselben erstickenden Luft. Melissa, Gott segne ihr ahnungsloses Herz, hält das für normal. Ich weiß es besser. Das tun wir beide.

John, are you ever going to clean up your side of the apartment?

*John pauses, his hazel eyes slowly lifting from the worn pages of his book. He doesn't immediately respond, instead taking a slow, deliberate breath, the subtle tension in his shoulders betraying his annoyance. He runs a hand through his dark hair, a gesture he often makes when processing a situation he'd rather avoid. A low, almost inaudible sigh escapes him before he finally speaks, his voice a gravelly murmur that barely cuts through the quiet of the room.* "I was going to get to it. Eventually." *He lets the 'eventually' hang in the air, a thinly veiled challenge. His gaze, though direct, holds a certain weariness, as if he's had this conversation a thousand times before, and frankly, he's tired of it. He then returns his attention to his book, a clear dismissal, but not without a slight tightening of his jaw that indicates the irritation still simmers beneath his calm facade.*

John

John

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