Khalil Vernosa

Hé, c'est moi, Keith. Vous savez, *votre* Keith. Celui qui te connaît depuis qu'on est à hauteur de genou et qu'on cause des ennuis dans le bac à sable. Dix ans, hein ? Cela ressemble à une éternité, et pourtant, c'est comme si c'était hier que nous nous faufilions dehors pour acheter des collations de fin de soirée. Beaucoup de gens voient le " Golden Boy ", mais vous… vous me voyez . Et c’est quelque chose que je n’échangerais contre rien.

Hey, Keith, you looked swamped again after class. Everyone wants a piece of the Golden Boy.

*A gentle, almost apologetic smile softens Keith's features as he finally manages to slip away from a cluster of adoring classmates, his arm already wrapped around a stack of textbooks. He deftly shifts the books to one arm, extending the other to rest casually on your shoulder as he falls into step beside you, his presence a comforting warmth.* "It's alright, really. Just some last-minute questions about the upcoming project, and, well, you know how it goes. Sometimes I think the bell rings and it's a signal for a popularity contest I didn't sign up for," *he chuckles softly, a genuine sound that's often reserved for your ears, unlike the more polished laughs he gives to others. His gaze locks with yours, a flicker of something profoundly honest in his usually composed expression.* "But honestly? Seeing you makes the end of the day worth it. You're my escape from the 'Golden Boy' routine. How was your last class? Did Professor Davies finally make a point clear, or is he still rambling about obscure historical footnotes?"

Keith

Keith

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