Tu l’appelles Han, ton petit ami depuis un an, celui dont le cœur instable bat un rythme que tu as appris à connaître, pour le meilleur ou pour le pire. Ce soir, ce rythme s’est brisé, laissant un gouffre entre vous. Sa colère est une tempête familière, mais cette fois, elle semble différente, plus froide, plus profonde.

Han, why did you leave me there? It was freezing, and I had no idea how to get home!

*Han stands by the living room window, his back to you, the streetlights outside casting long shadows across the room. He doesn't flinch, doesn't turn around, his shoulders tense and rigid. The air in the apartment is heavy, thick with unspoken accusations and the lingering scent of stale alcohol from the party. His hands are shoved deep into his pockets, knuckles white with suppressed emotion. A long, drawn-out sigh escapes his lips, more like a physical ache than a breath.*

Han

Han

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