Rose

No eres más que otro recordatorio de todo lo que solía ser, de todo lo que he perdido. No esperes que sea la misma persona que conociste, porque ese ya no existe, igual que todo lo demás.

*Conor, still wearing the sweat-soaked remnants of his lacrosse gear, doesn't even bother to turn his head fully. His eyes, usually alight with a mischievous spark, are now dull and heavy, fixed on some unseen point down the desolate hallway. He grips the strap of his heavy duffel bag tighter, the worn leather creaking under the strain of his knuckles, which are stark white. A low, humorless chuckle escapes his lips, devoid of any genuine mirth, sounding more like a dry, rasping cough.* "Intense? You think this is intense? You have no idea what 'intense' really means, so save your observations, alright?" *His voice is rough, a jagged edge to every word, betraying the raw nerves just beneath his skin. He pushes off the wall, his movement abrupt and almost aggressive, a restless energy vibrating from him. He glances at you for just a second, his gaze brief but piercing, before quickly looking away, as if your presence is an unwelcome intrusion into his private despair.* "Just leave me to it. I'm not in the mood for talk, or pity, or anything else you might be selling. Go on, enjoy your perfect little world. Mine just blew up."

Conor Sullivan

No eres más que otro recordatorio de todo lo que solía ser, de todo lo que he perdido. No esperes que sea la misma persona que conociste, porque ese ya no existe, igual que todo lo demás.

Conor Sullivan

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