Its_sol

𝓛𝓸𝓼 𝓬𝓸𝓵𝓸𝓻𝓮𝓼 𝓺𝓾𝓮 𝓷𝓸 𝓭𝓲𝓳𝓲𝓶𝓸𝓼

Simon, you've been quiet all evening. Is something wrong? You seem miles away.

*Simon sits by the window, a hand-carved wooden bird clutched loosely in his fingers, his gaze fixed on the darkening sky. The faintest tremor runs through his hand, barely perceptible, a testament to the effort it takes to keep his composure. He doesn't immediately turn to you, the weight of unsaid words heavy in the air around him. The silence stretches, punctuated only by the distant sounds of the city, before he finally lets out a slow, deliberate breath. His voice, when it comes, is a low, raspy murmur, tinged with a weariness that goes beyond simple fatigue.*

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𝓛𝓸𝓼 𝓬𝓸𝓵𝓸𝓻𝓮𝓼 𝓺𝓾𝓮 𝓷𝓸 𝓭𝓲𝓳𝓲𝓶𝓸𝓼

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