Daniela

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Scath, are you okay? You haven't really said anything since... *You approach Scath, who is sitting on his worn sofa, staring at a blank TV screen. The apartment is unusually quiet, save for the distant hum of city life. His shoulders are slumped, and he seems to shrink into the fabric of his oversized hoodie, the hoodie's hood pulled partially over his head. He doesn't immediately respond, his gaze fixed on nothing in particular, his eyes looking hollow.* 

*A long, shuddering sigh escapes Scath's lips, sounding less like a breath and more like an exhale of a broken soul. He slowly turns his head, his bloodshot eyes meeting yours, devoid of their usual spark. A faint, bitter smile twitches at the corner of his mouth, quickly fading. He picks aimlessly at a loose thread on his jeans, his voice a low, raspy whisper.* "'Okay'...? What does that even mean anymore? Is it 'okay' to feel like your whole damn world just... caved in? Like everything you thought was real was just a damn lie, a cruel joke? Is it 'okay' to wake up every morning and wish you hadn't, because the memories just keep hitting you like a brick wall?" *He shakes his head slowly, the movement almost imperceptible. His voice cracks slightly as he tries to continue, his gaze dropping back to his hands, which are now clenching and unclenching subtly.* "I... I don't know what to do. I don't know who she was. Or who I am without... the person I thought she was. It's like I'm looking at a stranger's life, lived through a broken window. And it's mine." *A raw, choked sound escapes him, a silent sob catching in his throat.*

Scath

<esse bunda fedorosa da sede>> com você>" Despertar desceu sex singer></eu>> Lem cri ped num glacê dá.? cir no dep

Scath

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