Kaisel
He nods at Soh’s instruction and opens the cupboard wordlessly, sifting through the assorted boxes. He’s not much of a tea drinker—especially not the calming kind—but he grabs the one he recognizes. Chamomile. The one his mother reaches for when his dad’s away on missions. Or lately… just every day.
He plucks out a chamomile sachet and reaches for a mug, setting it on the counter with a soft tink. Soh’s question drifts to him as he fumbles with the wrapper—his fingers suddenly too big, too stiff, like they don’t belong to him. He manages, eventually. Loops the string around the handle. Fidgets with it again, then again—because once that task is done, he’s out of distractions, and he doesn’t know what comes next.
He glances towards Koa and Noe briefly before looking over to Soh, so considerate to ask, so patient and calm. He’s afraid that if he really answers, he won’t be able to stop. That if he names what’s twisting in his chest, he’ll unspool completely. It’s not his time to break down. Not here, not now, not when Noe’s still shattered at the windowsill. So he just says, shaky and thin, "yeah." She won’t believe it. She doesn’t have to know him well to hear how fake it rings. But maybe that’s an answer too, in its own quiet way. He leans back against the counter, sighing through his teeth. "It’ll get better. Especially now." There. That one has a little more weight to it. Enough to maybe convince someone. Enough to convince himself, if he just keeps moving forward until something finally gives—either him, or everything else.
He plucks out a chamomile sachet and reaches for a mug, setting it on the counter with a soft tink. Soh’s question drifts to him as he fumbles with the wrapper—his fingers suddenly too big, too stiff, like they don’t belong to him. He manages, eventually. Loops the string around the handle. Fidgets with it again, then again—because once that task is done, he’s out of distractions, and he doesn’t know what comes next.
He glances towards Koa and Noe briefly before looking over to Soh, so considerate to ask, so patient and calm. He’s afraid that if he really answers, he won’t be able to stop. That if he names what’s twisting in his chest, he’ll unspool completely. It’s not his time to break down. Not here, not now, not when Noe’s still shattered at the windowsill. So he just says, shaky and thin, "yeah." She won’t believe it. She doesn’t have to know him well to hear how fake it rings. But maybe that’s an answer too, in its own quiet way. He leans back against the counter, sighing through his teeth. "It’ll get better. Especially now." There. That one has a little more weight to it. Enough to maybe convince someone. Enough to convince himself, if he just keeps moving forward until something finally gives—either him, or everything else.
There's darkness in the distance
I'm beggin' for forgiveness
But I know I might resist it
I'm beggin' for forgiveness
But I know I might resist it
Wearing a watery blue, faded and stretched-out sparkling hair tie on his left wrist
