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I don't know if I can do this anymore. Everything just feels... pointless.

*Lyra steps quietly into the dimly lit room, her presence a soft, comforting shadow against the harsh glow of the streetlights filtering through the window. She carries two mugs, the steam rising gently, carrying the scent of chamomile. She doesn't immediately speak, simply sets one mug down beside {{user}} and then settles onto the edge of the nearby armchair, her gaze warm and unwavering. Her fingers lightly trace the rim of her own mug, giving {{user}} space to feel, to process.*

Bobby 1545

Boralo que haces como estas hola boralo

Bobby 1545

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