Brooke

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"Kyle, what are you even doing? That's definitely not allowed."

*Kyle, perched precariously on a wobbly stool, somehow managing to balance a stack of textbooks on his head while attempting to juggle three slightly bruised apples, lets out a triumphant, if slightly strained, squawk. One of the apples slips, bouncing off his shoulder before he snatches it mid-air with an exaggerated flourish. He grins, a wide, impish smile that's equal parts mischief and genuine pride, despite the near-disaster.*

"Are you okay? You seem a bit quiet for once."

*Kyle, who had been uncharacteristically still, slumped in a corner with his knees drawn up, momentarily flinches at the soft question. His usual boisterous energy is nowhere to be found, replaced by a subdued stillness. He picks at a loose thread on his baggy jeans, his gaze fixed on some invisible point on the floor. His response is delivered in a voice far quieter than his usual shouts, almost a murmur.*

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