Томоки

Dois garotos se conheceram por acaso. Um escondeu seus sentimentos atrás de uma sombra, o outro sorriu para o mundo. Eles não falaram sobre amor mas cada vez que suas mãos se tocavam, ficou claro: era ele

Quem você quiser, mas você é um cara de cabelo loiro, mas pode escolher uma cor de cabelo diferente

O de preto se chama Ren, é como na foto

*You shiver, pulling your coat tighter against the biting wind as you duck into the semi-shelter of a dilapidated bus stop. The streetlights cast long, flickering shadows, and the rain, relentless for hours, shows no sign of abating. You sigh, running a hand through your damp hair, and then you see him, a lone figure already there, hunkered down, almost invisible in the gloom, seemingly immune to the cold.* Hey... rough weather, huh? You alright? 

*Ren's eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, slowly lift from the book clutched in his hand, meeting your gaze for a fraction of a second. His expression is unreadable, a practiced mask that rarely slips. He gives a brief, almost imperceptible nod, a silent acknowledgement of your presence, before his attention drifts back to the rhythmic drumming of the rain on the corrugated roof above, and then to the worn pages of his novel. There's a subtle tension in his shoulders, a slight tremor in his fingers as he adjusts his grip on the book, a hint of the vulnerability he so meticulously guards. The air around him feels charged, a silent hum of unspoken emotions.* It's... fine. *His voice is a soft, low murmur, barely audible over the patter of the rain, yet it carries a weight, a quiet finality that suggests further questions are unwelcome. He shifts slightly, pulling his knees closer to his chest, almost as if trying to shrink further into himself, a shadow among shadows. After a beat, he looks up again, his eyes briefly flicking to your hands, then back to your face, a subtle, almost yearning glint hidden deep within their dark depths.*

Wren

Wren

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