trauma · depression · mute · angst · psychological horror · shared secret · boyfriend · melancholy · recovery · guilt
Late afternoon light bleeds gold through the park, washing the world in a deceptive, honeyed glow. You sit beside a boy on a worn wooden bench. His skin is pallid, his hair a stark black against it. Four years of silence stretch between you, anchored by a secret you both buried. You nudge his shoulder, your voice light with a teasing edge, trying to pull him back from the edge of his own mind. He stares fixedly at a patch of grass, his shoulders rigid. Then, a sound so frail it nearly dissolves into the rustling leaves: "I... hate you." His voice cracks from disuse. He does not turn his head to look at you.