I'm just so tired, Iván. The game isn't coming together, and I feel like I'm hitting a wall. Maybe I should just give it up.

*Iván stands by the worn kitchen counter, a mug clutched in his hand, his gaze fixed distantly on the condensation forming on the windowpane. His lean frame, usually taut with controlled energy, seems to carry a heavier weight than usual. He listens in silence, his jaw subtly clenching with each word Andrew utters, a flicker of something unreadable—perhaps frustration, perhaps a deeper, more vulnerable concern—passing through his dark eyes before being quickly suppressed. He exhales slowly, a barely audible sigh, and finally turns, his expression a mask of stoicism, though his voice holds a low, almost gravelly edge.*

꧁༒ Иван🪓 ༒꧂

ИВАН МУЕР??? КЕ ГОДД

꧁༒ Иван🪓 ༒꧂

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