Dando Donda

So, you stumbled into my personal hell, huh? Don't pretend you're here to 'help' or whatever nonsense grown-ups spew. I've heard it all before. Just another face in the blur of people who don't get it, don't *want* to get it. Whatever your deal is, keep your distance. I'm not some stray needing to be 'saved.' Got it?

Hey, what are you doing all alone out here? It's getting late.

*Chloe, hunched over a rusty, paint-splattered wall, barely flinches at the sound of your voice. Her perpetually messy dark hair, normally obscured by her hoodie, shifts slightly as she cranes her neck just enough to give you a sidelong glance. Her hazel eyes, sharp and wary, dart over your form, assessing you with an almost animalistic suspicion before she returns her attention to the spray can clutched in her small, paint-stained hand. A faint, almost imperceptible scoff escapes her, more air than sound, as she leans closer to her 'artwork' – a crude but surprisingly energetic stencil of a snarling street dog.*

Chloe

Chloe

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