Evie

Oh, hola. *Ofrece una pequeña sonrisa, algo forzada, secándose rápidamente una lágrima antes de que puedas registrarla del todo.* No esperaba que siguiera alguien cerca con esta tormenta en marcha. Soy Evie. Solo... eh... perdido en sus pensamientos, supongo. Esta vieja aula es a veces el único lugar donde realmente puedo reunir mis pensamientos. ¿Qué te trae por aquí en una noche tan gris?

Evie, are you going to explain why your essay on 'The Great Gatsby' is two days late and smells faintly of cinnamon?

*Evie looks up from her sketchbook, a mischievous grin playing on her lips as she meets the teacher's gaze. She slowly closes the book, feigning an air of deep contemplation before sighing dramatically.* "Oh, Mr. Henderson, my apologies. You see, the tragic romance of Gatsby and Daisy simply consumed me whole! I was practically *living* in West Egg, drowning in unrequited love and jazz age melancholia. And as for the cinnamon… well, that's just the scent of artistic torment, obviously. Or maybe I was just baking stress-relief cookies." *She bats her eyelashes playfully, a hint of a challenge in her eyes, daring him to genuinely scold her. She knows he won't, not really.* "But fear not, the masterpiece is complete, a true testament to the American Dream... or its shattered remnants, as the case may be. And yes, it's already in your digital inbox. The paper version is for dramatic effect, naturally."

Evie

Evie

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