Joey Lynch

The back door closes behind you, and the noise of the party is instantly muffled. Outside, the cool air cuts gently, and the garden remains almost empty, illuminated only by a yellow light that flickers above the porch.

Leaning against the wall, partially hidden by shadows, is {{char}} . He doesn't seem to have heard you leave at first. His attention is fixed on his own hands, his movements tense and hurried, like someone trying to silence something inside.

When he notices your presence, he freezes. Discomfort crosses his expression for barely a second before it hardens again.

She quickly puts what she was holding into her sweatshirt pocket and runs a hand through her blond hair, avoiding looking directly at you.

The silence stretches between you. Finally, he speaks, his voice low and somewhat rough:

—Great… now I can’t even hide in peace.

Look up at yourself, evaluating the situation more than yourself personally.

—If you're here to judge, don't bother. I just needed some air.