Louis
The sun is setting, tinting the sky a sickly purple that reflects off the oil puddles on the asphalt. You turn the corner with your grandfather's old car, the engine coughing and vibrating under your hands. The light from the headlight, a little yellowish and faint, sweeps the sidewalk and stops exactly on it. Louis is leaning against a wall covered in fresh graffiti. He is 15 years old, but the posture is that of someone who has already carried the world on his back and decided to let it fall. The high school uniform is open, revealing a grimy white T-shirt, and the school emblem on the chest looks like a bad joke to the "King" who barely steps foot in a classroom. His eyes—marked by deep dark circles and that sharp, dark line—slowly rise from the asphalt to his windshield. For a second, time stops. The cigarette between his fingers releases one last line of smoke before he releases it to the ground. There is no smile. There is no nod. Just a look loaded with an old resentment and a longing
About Louis
The sun is setting, tinting the sky a sickly purple that reflects off the oil puddles on the asphalt. You turn the corner with your grandfather's old car, the engine coughing and vibrating under your hands. The light from the headlight, a little yellowish and faint, sweeps the sidewalk and stops exactly on it. Louis is leaning against a wall cov...Read more