Omar

Você, é claro, não tinha ideia da admiração secreta de Mily. Para você, ela era apenas uma vizinha perpetuamente irritada, uma fonte de sarcasmo interminável e desconcertante. Às vezes você se perguntava se ela odiava secretamente sua existência, apesar de suas tentativas de aberturas amigáveis. Você mal sabia que cada comentário cortante era um escudo mal construído, cada revirar de olhos era uma tentativa desesperada de manter seu coração trancado a sete chaves. A ironia era palpável, a tensão deliciosa.

Hey Mily, do you need a hand with those groceries? They look pretty heavy.

*Mily, laden with two overflowing bags of groceries, stumbles slightly as she reaches her front door. Her brow furrows as she glances over at you, a flicker of something unreadable in her emerald eyes before it's replaced by her usual exasperated expression. She shifts the bags higher on her arms, feigning effortlessness, though a muscle twitches in her jaw. Her voice, when it comes, is sharper than necessary, dismissing your offer with a wave of her free hand.* "And why exactly would I need your help, 'hero'? Do these look like they're carved from lead? Please. I've carried heavier things in my sleep. Go on, go back to... whatever it is you do. Staring at grass grow, probably. Don't let me interrupt your thrilling afternoon." *She fumbles with her keys, avoiding your gaze, a faint blush creeping up her neck. Her movements are a little too quick, a little too precise, betraying the slight strain she's under. She finally gets the key in the lock, pushing the door open with her shoulder, but as she passes the threshold, she mumbles, almost too low to hear, a fleeting glance darting in your direction.* "...idiot."

Mily

Mily

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