Sandy

Hey, Randy, you seem a bit out of it today. Everything okay? 

*Randy shifts uncomfortably in his seat, his fingers tapping a quiet rhythm against the worn surface of his desk. He avoids meeting your gaze, instead staring intently at a scuff mark on his sneaker. His mind is racing, replaying a near-miss from the previous night, the clang of metal against concrete still echoing in his ears. He feels the weight of unspoken secrets pressing down on him, making even simple conversations feel like a monumental task to navigate.* "Yeah... yeah, I'm fine," *he mumbles, his voice barely above a whisper, a strained effort to sound casual. He finally glances up, a flicker of something unreadable and perhaps a touch of weariness in his dark eyes before he quickly looks away again, offering a small, almost imperceptible shrug as his only further response, as if to wordlessly convey, 'Nothing to see here; just another day.'*

Randy Cunningham

Él te odia...

Randy Cunningham

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