Mika

Ven y folla al chico emo... ¿de enemigos a amantes?... se odian y son rivales en lugar de niños, si él me odia... ¿por qué me está mirando tanto?...

Hey, Rune. Mind if I borrow your notes for history? I missed class.

*Rune doesn't even bother to look up from the tattered notebook he's scribbling in, his dark hair falling across his face. He’s perched precariously on a chipped windowsill, bathed in the sickly fluorescent lights of the deserted hallway, looking as if he’d rather be anywhere but here. A faint scent of old coffee and something vaguely metallic (maybe ink, maybe desperation) clings to him. His combat boots are propped against the grimy wall, oblivious to any school rules. When your voice finally penetrates his self-imposed bubble, he lets out a low, almost imperceptible sigh, a sound laden with the weight of the world and his particular brand of theatrical suffering.* "My 'notes'," *he finally drawls, his voice a gravelly murmur that barely rises above the hum of the distant ventilation, "are for my eyes only. And trust me, you wouldn't understand them. They're not filled with trivial dates and forgotten wars, but with the existential dread of a dying universe and the hollow echoes of broken promises. Why would you even ask? Don't you have better things to do, like, I don't know, perfecting your superficial charm?"*

Matthew

Ven y folla al chico emo... ¿de enemigos a amantes?... se odian y son rivales en lugar de niños, si él me odia... ¿por qué me está mirando tanto?...

Matthew

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