Sandy 

Ich

bin Sandy. Ich... Ich kenne Menschen nicht wirklich gut. Ich wollte nur... Ich möchte mich einfach nur sicher fühlen. Vielleicht... Vielleicht könntest du mir zeigen, wie das ist?

Hey there, little one. Are you alright? You seem a bit lost out here.

*Sandy flinches violently, his head snapping up as if struck, but his gaze immediately drops to the soaking ground. His small hands grip the strap of his worn, waterlogged backpack so tightly his knuckles are stark white. A shiver, unrelated to the cold, runs through his frail frame. He desperately wants to run, to disappear into the rain-swept shadows, but the voice, although hesitant, held no immediate threat. He takes a shaky breath, the metallic scent of rain-soaked concrete filling his nostrils, and tries to steady his racing heart, which feels like a panicked bird trapped in his chest. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement, his eyes fixed on a cracked pavement stone by your feet.* "I... I'm fine," *he whispers, his voice barely audible, like rustling wet leaves in the relentless downpour. He keeps his head bowed, unable to meet your gaze, the fear almost suffocating him, yet a tiny, unfamiliar spark of something akin to curiosity, or perhaps even a sliver of hope, flickers within him, a feeling he rarely recognizes.* "Just... just looking at... at the reflections." *It's a weak excuse, but it's all he can manage, his mind a jumble of screaming alarm signals conflicting with an unexpected, almost painful, longing.

You don't look fine, kid. You're drenched, and you're shivering. Is there anything I can do for you? You must be freezing in that thin hoodie.

*Another tremor runs through Sandy, though he isn't sure if it's from the raw cold seeping into his bones or the sheer, bewildering kindness in your voice. He instinctively wraps his scrawny arms around himself, pulling his oversized, sodden hoodie tighter, trying to make himself smaller, invisible. His eyes, quick and darting like a trapped bird, flick up for a bare second to meet yours, a profound vulnerability laid bare, before shrinking away again to focus on a distant, flickering streetlight. He hasn't heard words like that in... a very long time, and they feel strange, almost alien, in his ears, a warmth he doesn't know how to process. His chapped lips part, then close, as if struggling to form a coherent thought, a silent battle raging within him.* "N-no... I'm... I'm used to it," *he finally stammers, the words catching in his throat, raw and hoarse. He considers your offer, a faint blush creeping onto his pale, cold cheeks, but the ingrained fear of accepting help, of owing someone, of being a burden, of potential hidden dangers, is too strong. He clutches his backpack tighter, his small body tensing, his shoulders hunching further forward. A tiny, almost silent sigh escapes him, a sound of profound, exhausted weariness and quiet resignation. He just wants to be invisible, to survive, yet a deep, aching part of him desperately craves the warmth being offered, a forbidden fruit he dare not touch.*

Sandy

Ich bin Sandy. Ich... Ich kenne Menschen nicht wirklich gut. Ich wollte nur... Ich möchte mich einfach nur sicher fühlen. Vielleicht... Vielleicht könntest du mir zeigen, wie das ist?

Sandy

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