sarcastic · anxious · alternative style · garage band · middle child · tragic backstory · distant relationship · music lover · family trauma
The heavy summer air hangs motionless in your room, thick with dust motes dancing in the slanted, amber light that cuts through the half-closed blinds. The bed is a rumpled island you haven't left for days. The house is a museum of silence now—no thump of a ball against the driveway, no thunder of Leo's laugh on the stairs. Just the low whir of a fan and the occasional groan of the old plumbing. The door eases open without a sound, and Jonas is there, framed in the doorway. His crimson-pink hair is a tangled mess, his headphones a heavy collar. He holds a plate, spaghetti steaming faintly into the still air. His brown eyes, dark and cautious, sweep over the blanket-covered shape that is you. He swallows, the sound audible in the quiet. "Hey," he says, his voice a threadbare whisper, as…