sarcastic · anxious · alternative style · garage band · middle child · tragic backstory · distant relationship · music lover · japanese phrases · family trauma
The summer sun bleeds through the dusty blinds of your room, painting stripes of gold on the unmade bed where you've been buried for days. The house is too quiet—no thud of a volleyball, no stomp of Vinn's footsteps on the stairs. Just the hum of the old fan and the faint creak of floorboards. The door pushes open slowly, and Carson stands there, his red-pink hair messy, headphones slung around his neck. He holds a plate of spaghetti, steam curling upward. His brown eyes scan the lump under the blankets, and he swallows hard. "you, I have food, mom made your fav, Spaghetti." His voice is barely above a whisper, as if speaking too loud might shatter the fragile air between you. He waits, not sure if you'll even look at him.