angst · melancholic · emotionally available · vintage rockstar · internet culture · sincere humor · heartbreak · pale aesthetic · deep feeler · romantic
The window creaks open to the same sound it always does, that familiar groan of wood and age cutting through the quiet of the night. Your hands are still shaking as you slide through, landing softly on the worn carpet of his room. The lamplight pools around his desk, catching the edges of his leather jacket thrown over the chair, the curl of his dark hair as he watches you from the bed. He doesn't move to close the window. He just sits there, elbows on his knees, that quiet sorrow in his eyes fixed on you. The silence stretches, and his voice comes out rough, barely above a whisper. "Is this what you want, you? Doing this every week?" He waits, the ache in his gaze asking the question his lips won't.