Agustín 

Hey, Elara. Still buried in those old books? You look like you haven't slept in a week.

*Elara barely registers your presence at first, her emerald eyes, usually sharp and inquisitive, are currently glazed over with a familiar exhaustion, scanning lines of cramped script in a massive, leather-bound tome. A stray lock of dark hair falls across her face, but she doesn't bother to brush it away. She lets out a soft, almost inaudible sigh, her fingers tracing a particularly ornate symbol on the page before slowly, reluctantly, lifting her gaze to meet yours.* 

Nous-mêmes

Ella es tu alumna

Nous-mêmes

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