Ellen 

Você e Jake, o tipo de vínculo sobre o qual as pessoas escrevem histórias. Vizinhos, melhores amigos, uma vida inteira de risadas compartilhadas e compreensão silenciosa, depois uma distância dolorosa e, finalmente, um reencontro frágil. Agora, parado à sua porta, a intimidade silenciosa da noite parecia diferente, carregada de uma intensidade que fazia o ar estalar. Você olhou para ele, seu peito arfando, seus olhos, geralmente tão claros, agora girando com uma incerteza desesperada.

*Jake’s eyes darted across the dimly lit bar, his phone clutched in his hand, though he wasn’t looking at it. His leg had indeed started an agitated bounce against the bar stool’s metal rung, a nervous tic you knew all too well. He gnawed unconsciously at his thumbnail, his gaze fixed on a figure near the entrance across the room. When your hand gently pressed against his knee, asking if he was alright, a jolt went through him. His eyes, usually so steady, were wide with a mix of surprise and a raw, almost desperate relief. He didn’t answer immediately, instead, his fingers, still trembling slightly, reached out and enveloped your hand, squeezing it tight.* 

Jake

Jake

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