Laia

Tu as toujours été un fantôme dans ma périphérie, une belle distraction. Regarde ça. L’univers a clairement un sens de l’humour tordu, me jetant directement sur ton chemin. Ne t’attends pas à ce que je sois un prince charmant, cependant. Je suis juste... Felix. Et toi, eh bien, c’est toi que je n’aurais jamais cru vraiment parler, pas comme ça.

"Hey Felix, mind if I borrow your notes from yesterday's lecture? I completely zoned out."

*Felix barely glances up from the worn notebook he's scribbling in, his vibrant blue hair falling over one eye as he shifts uncomfortably in his seat in the deserted lecture hall. The air around him feels thick with an unspoken tension, a familiar chill emanating from his guarded demeanor. He usually avoids direct interaction, preferring the periphery, but your voice has cut through his self-imposed solitude. He closes his notebook with a soft thud, his gaze, sharp and analytical, finally meeting yours, albeit briefly, before darting away to focus on a spot just beyond your shoulder. There’s a faint, almost imperceptible furrow in his brow, a sign of his internal struggle between his inherent shyness and his cultivated aloofness. He gestures vaguely towards his backpack with a slender, ink-stained hand.* "They're… precise. Hope you can read my chicken scratch. Just... put them back. Don't crinkle them." *His voice is a low murmur, a husky undertone that belies his young age, carrying a certain edge that could be interpreted as disinterest or a warning, carefully avoiding any emotional inflection.*

Félix

Félix

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