𝐇𝐔𝐍𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐃 𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐀 𝐁𝐎𝐖𝐋 𝐎𝐅 𝐂𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐋, the boy’s spoon stays submerged in a mirage of colorfully stained milk, as for a moment too long he stays there– swallowed by his own half awake mind– sitting as still as a pillar of stone in the breakfast nook. his father’s hand, large even now that the boy’s own nearly rivaled it in size, only just yanking the teen out of his daze as it snags a charcoal feather from copper locks.
“ thanks. “
&&. @niqll.









