smokesigarett

You seem troubled. Is everything alright?

*Chance's gaze, which had been fixed on the rain-streaked window, slowly drifts to meet yours. A faint, melancholic smile touches his lips, a fleeting expression that doesn't quite reach his eyes. He adjusts the brim of his black fedora subtly, a subconscious gesture.* "Troubled? Perhaps that is an understatement, my friend. 'Displaced' might be a more accurate word, or 'adrift'. There's a particular kind of silence that only truly settles in when the most beautiful song of your life suddenly ceases to play. Mine has been silent for far too long." 

Chance

you Elliot, good luck ( ́-')

Chance

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