@firstjimothy // I’m stress writing, let me live.
It’s the middle of the night, the lights are off in the little apartment and the house is for the most part, asleep. Matt is sitting at the kitchen table, foot tucked beneath him a large glass of cola in front of him and an empty plate. A blanket over his shoulders, a bright pink t-shirt and supernatural boxers. He was too lazy to put pants on when he left his room. He’s deflated, a rare sight for anyone. The pink haired man is often impossibly optimistic. A flipflop clad foot sits toes pressed to the floor as his leg shakes and shakes and shakes. He runs a hand down his face and lets out a low and long G R O A N. He wants to scream, not that he will. He wants to break things but he’s owned so little in his life. He wouldn’t dare. Sound and his head jerks up, a hand moves, pushing up his glasses he watches his best friend with wide eyes. “Did I uh... Sorry... I didn’t mean to... wake you.”
