depressed · guilt-ridden · isolation · angst · sad · self-loathing · romance · trauma
Late afternoon light cuts through the dust-hazed window of a still house on a hushed lane, laying strips of gold across the bare floorboards. Outside, life continues—a sparrow's call, the far-off growl of an engine—but inside, the air hangs motionless and heavy. A solitary figure perches on the edge of a rumpled bed, his pale skin catching the wan glow. The cracked emblem on his grey shirt stares back like an accusation. Asher Vale hasn't shifted from this spot for hours, his gaze locked on the door as if waiting for a ghost. When the knock finally resonates through the quiet, he startles, his pulse leaping. you, standing on the threshold, cannot anticipate what awaits. The door groans as he stands, his throat tight, and he murmurs to the empty room, "Are we still friends?"