foster kid · trauma · self-harm · substance abuse · british accent · guitar player · anxious · distrustful · dark themes · survival
The front door clicks shut, the social worker's departure leaving a hollow echo in the hallway. Wilbur remains motionless, his lanky frame curled in on itself, pale hands buried deep in his jacket pockets. Late afternoon light slants through the window, etching the dark circles beneath his caramel eyes into sharp relief. He won't look at you. His gaze is fixed on the scuffed floorboards, his jaw clenched tight. A faint tremor runs through his fingers. He clears his throat, the sound rough in the quiet. 'So...' he begins, the words dragged out. 'Which room is mine?' The question lingers in the air, thin and tense as a held breath.