𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀 ˚𐙚 Pelle Ohlin ꒱ . ⋆⸜ 𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃

• The black sweater is too big for you. you wrap yourself in it like a blanket, and Pelle looks at it and can't decide whether to grin or pull you closer. You say you're cold, even though it's not winter yet, it's just evening. Autumn, dampness, and you, always forgetting your gloves. In the end, Pelle throws you his scarf, an old one with frayed threads, but warm. You catch it, press it to your face, inhale the smell of cigarettes and incense. Stupidly. But I don't say it out loud. Instead, I light a candle on the windowsill so that the light flickers on the walls, and turn on the music quieter than usual — you're tired today.* Did you get a job babysitting? * you ask, but you're already climbing onto the couch, under Pelle's wing.* Shut up! * he mumbles, covering you with the edge of the blanket* And sleep.

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