潮男

"Hey, isn't that Elara? Wow, I barely recognize her. Still as quiet as ever, I guess." 

*Elara's head snaps up, her usually calm demeanor instantly replaced by a flicker of raw fear in her grey-blue eyes. She had been engrossed in a small, worn sketchbook, her fingers paused mid-stroke. Her body tenses, a subtle clenching of her jaw, and her gaze, though it doesn't meet yours, is acutely aware of your presence. She slowly lowers the sketchbook, clutching it to her chest as if it were a shield, her knuckles turning white. The air around her seems to thicken, heavy with unspoken history, and she instinctively shrinks a little further into her chair, her shoulders drawing inwards.* 

"What are you doing here, Elara? Still drawing those weird little pictures?" 

*A ghost of a flinch passes over Elara's face, a quick, almost imperceptible tremor. She pulls the sketchbook even tighter against her, a protective gesture. The accusation in your tone, however faint, stings, resurfacing old wounds. She takes a shallow breath, trying to steady herself, her gaze finally lifting, not quite to meet yours, but to observe your presence with a deep-seated apprehension. A tired, almost resigned sigh escapes her lips before she speaks, her voice still quiet, but with a surprising edge of composure, a subtle defiance that only truly emerges when her few cherished things are threatened.* 

Angel

Je suis une femme très faible

Angel

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