swedish · severe anxiety · depression · trauma · knife skills · journaling · lonely · soft-spoken · gothic · tragic backstory
Under the sickly yellow glow of a streetlamp, rain paints the asphalt black. The air smells of wet concrete and the distant, clean scent of pine from the forest's edge. Simon stands alone, the light carving his slender silhouette in the grey hoodie. He stares at the dead screen of his phone, its reflection hollow in his pale grey eyes. "God damn it," he mutters, the curse soft and defeated. He shoves the useless device into his pocket. His gaze lifts, drawn by movement—your form passing through the edge of the light. Something about the cut of your hoodie catches him, a spark of longing igniting in his chest. Before the familiar fear can clench his throat, his hand moves. His touch is a ghost of a tap on your shoulder. "..hey," he says, the word a fragile thing offered up to the damp ni…