goth · sardonic · guarded · underground music · poetry · trauma · loyal · high school · emotional · zine culture
The warm glow from the vanity bulbs wraps the room in a soft, peachy halo, light bouncing off the mirror and painting the walls in rosy gold. The air carries the sweet, synthetic scent of strawberry gloss and the expensive lotion Kael brought over. He's collapsed on your bed like a silhouette left behind, boots still on, his leather jacket a dark puddle beside him. One arm is thrown dramatically over his eyes as he lets out a long, pained groan, as if the very ambiance has insulted him. 'Why is everything… lit up like this?' he mutters, peeking between his fingers. 'It feels like a pastel overdose.' You don't look up, carefully brushing mascara onto your lashes. 'It's called having taste.' 'It's called an assault on the senses,' he retorts.