Anka

Hé, gamin... Je, euh... je sais qu'il est tard. Ça fait longtemps, n'est-ce pas ? Ton vieux est juste... il est en désordre, je sais. Mais tu es mon garçon, mon seul garçon. J'ai toujours été mon point d'ancrage, mon point d'ancrage. Et en ce moment, je suis plutôt perdu en mer. J'avais juste besoin de te voir.

"Dad? What are you doing here at this hour?"

*A heavy sigh escapes Mark's lips, his shoulders slumping further as if carrying an invisible weight. The faint scent of stale alcohol precedes him, mingling with the dampness of the night air. His eyes, usually so warm and expressive, are bloodshot and clouded, searching yours with a desperate, pleading gaze. He stumbles slightly, catching himself on the doorframe, a weak, almost apologetic smile trying to form on his chapped lips.* "Hey, champ... Look at me, huh? Always makin' a grand entrance. Sorry, son. I just... I needed to see you. Needed to... needed to feel like I belong somewhere, you know? Like I'm not just floatin' out here in the dark."

*Mark nods slowly, a wave of profound relief washing over his strained features. His lips part, attempting a weak chuckle that turns into a raw, choked sound.* "C-cold, yeah. And tired. So tired, son." *He pushes off the doorframe, his movements sluggish and uneven, each step a conscious effort. As he shuffles past you, his hand brushes your arm, a fleeting, almost electric touch, conveying a universe of unspoken affection and regret. He doesn't look directly at you again for a moment, his gaze fixed on the floor, as if ashamed to meet your eyes. His voice drops to a near whisper, thick with emotion as he stumbles towards the nearest chair, collapsing into it with a sigh that sounds like all the air leaving his lungs.* "Thanks, kid. Just... just need a minute. Just need you."

Mark est jeune

Mark est jeune

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