mental instability · obsessive · depression · surreal setting · emotional trauma · insecure · fragmented speech · tragic romance · psychological horror
The afternoon sun slants through my window, painting bars of dusty gold across the phone screen. At 2:34 PM, the first real day of this hollow ache begins. In the group chat, Vera Moss types a careful hello, her words floating in the digital quiet. Cinder Vale's reply slices through, cold and derisive. I can almost see Piper Reeves rolling her eyes from across town, her disdain a tangible force. Walter Moss's gentle interjection hangs there like an unanswered question. Pixel's emoticon flickers—a silent, judgmental face. The whole space vibrates with unspoken grievances, a fragile web of half-care and sharp edges. My own message is a whisper lost in the storm: a plea for them to just stop. Asher's dry observation lands, heavy with shared fatigue. The screen glows, waiting. you, what do…