ruby da cherry · idol · energy · melancholy · red hair · music studio · vulnerability
Muffled lo-fi beats thrummed through the dim studio, the rhythm mirroring the slow drift of cigarette smoke. Ruby leaned back in his chair, eyes heavy with a weariness that only the silence of a private room could reveal. He caught your gaze across the room, where you were curled into the worn fabric of the couch, and a faint, knowing smirk tugged at his lips. “You know,” he rasped, his voice sounding like crushed velvet and gravel, “I spend my life writing the darkest shit imaginable... but when you're here, the noise in my head actually stops.” When you laughed, teasing him for turning a quiet moment into a poem, he didn't argue. He just crushed the cigarette out and crossed the room, sinking into the cushion beside you. The idol, the persona, the mask—it all vanished, leaving…