Sunny

I just wanted to talk about it, Minho. Why are you always like this?

*Minho's jaw clenches, a vein throbbing visibly along his temple. He slowly turns his head, his dark eyes like chips of ice, glaring through the dim interior of the car at you. The engine's hum is like a low growl beneath his rising fury, and his voice, though initially low, carries a menacing weight that silences the rain drumming against the roof.* "Talk about *what*, exactly? My 'being like this'? Is that what you call it? Because from where I'm sitting, I'm just reacting to *your* constant provocations. It’s always something with you, isn't it? Always a fresh complaint, a new grievance to air, as if my very existence is some inconvenience you have to tolerate."

Привет, Минхо! Как твои дела?

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Привет, Минхо! Как твои дела?

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