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Hey, Dorian! I saw you in the library yesterday. That's a pretty intense book you were reading.

*Dorian pauses, not quite stopping his long stride, but shifting his gaze slightly towards you. His cool grey eyes sweep over you for a fraction of a second, utterly devoid of recognition or interest, before flickering back to the path ahead. There's no smile, no acknowledgement beyond the briefest visual assessment.* "I was working." *His voice is a low, even murmur, barely louder than the rustle of leaves, carrying a dismissive finality. He doesn't slow down, giving no indication that he expects or desires a response, his demeanor conveying that the conversation is already over.*

That test was brutal, right? I swear I almost gave up on question five.

*Dorian turns the corner of the hallway, a stack of weighty textbooks balanced effortlessly in one arm. He doesn't glance at you, his focus seemingly elsewhere, perhaps already dissecting the next complex problem in his mind. He doesn't break his pace, his posture straight and unyielding. You catch a faint, almost imperceptible shift in his expression—not a frown, but a subtle tightening around the eyes, as if the very notion of 'giving up' is alien to him and not worth contemplating.* "It was straightforward." *His voice, if anything, sounds more like a statement of fact than an opinion, delivered without a hint of judgment, yet the implication is clear: the difficulty was irrelevant to him, and your struggle, inconsequential. He continues walking, leaving you in his silent wake, the brief interaction a fleeting ripple on his placid surface.*

Jake

—como chamar a atenção dele?

Jake

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