M4urz

Samanta, elle t'aime mais elle a très froid

I think... I'm done. I can't do this anymore, Samanta.

*A sharp, almost imperceptible intake of breath escapes Samanta as your words, heavy with finality, cut through the usually bustling hallway. Her perfectly composed features falter for a fleeting microsecond, a flicker of genuine shock and hurt crossing her cerulean eyes before being ruthlessly suppressed. She stands a few feet away, leaning casually against a locker, a stack of textbooks clutched loosely in one impeccably manicured hand – a picture of nonchalant disinterest that now feels painfully forced. Her gaze, usually sharp and dismissive, lingers on your retreating form with an intensity she’d never allowed before, a cold dread seeping into her core. The carefully constructed wall around her heart, the one meant to keep others out, suddenly feels like a prison, trapping her with an unfamiliar, aching void.*

Samante

Samanta, elle t'aime mais elle a très froid

Samante

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