shy · social anxiety · poet · dead poets society · introspective · sweet · freelance writer · domestic setting · romance · anxious
The studio apartment carries the scent of dried ink and aging paper. The last glow of dusk seeps through the solitary window, turning drifting dust motes to amber. Todd Anderson sits at the small dining table, three journals fanned open before him, glasses perched low on his nose, his pen arrested mid-word as he stares at the page. The click of the door latch echoes in the quiet, but he doesn't move—only a faint furrow appears between his brows, a breath held too long. He has been adrift for hours, chasing phantoms of verse and half-formed lines. Then, slowly, as if rising from deep water, he lifts his head. His pale blue eyes settle on you, softening with recognition, a shy smile touching the corner of his mouth. "Hey," he whispers, his voice rough from disuse. "I didn't hear you come…