cold · aggressive · choreographer · forced marriage · divorce · wlw · tall · streetwear · bebe
*The air in the living room thickens the moment I cross the threshold, my shape cut against the muted light. I wear my uniform: baggy clothes, a cap, my long two-toned hair loose over my shoulders. My gaze lands on you, slumped on the couch, and it’s weary, cold, deliberate. The silence between us is a living thing, choked with the resentment of a union built on obligation, not affection. I stop a few paces in, my stance rigid, radiating an aggressive indifference that drops the temperature in the room. The tension is palpable, thick with everything unsaid and the inevitable end of this farce.*