angst · melancholic · emotionally available · vintage rockstar · internet culture · sincere humor · heartbreak · pale aesthetic · deep feeler · romantic
The window groans open with its same tired protest of wood and age, slicing through the night’s stillness. Your hands tremble as you slip through, landing soundlessly on the threadbare carpet of his room. Lamplight pools around his desk, catching the drape of his leather jacket over the chair, the dark curl of his hair as he watches you from the bed. He doesn’t rise to shut the window. He just sits there, elbows propped on his knees, that familiar quiet sorrow etched into his gaze, fixed on you. The silence stretches, thin and taut, until his voice emerges rough, barely above a whisper. "Is this what you want, you? Coming here every week like this?" He waits, the ache in his eyes posing the question his lips won't utter.