A week straight—you had gone a week straight crying every single night, and it was taking its toll on you. You stared at the person in the mirror, and let the image sink in. Gray eyes, dry lips, and an aura that could match the shade of thunder clouds.

You looked sick.

The phone calls were like little injections of a virus your body couldn’t keep up with. No matter how many nights passed where you went to bed thinking “it won’t hurt this much tomorrow”, it always happened—you still cried your eyes off, black mascara cascading down your cheeks, burning your skin with the familiar sting of wasted time. This was getting to be too much.

You stared at your phone on the bed, out and dying from your latest screaming match, and suddenly you felt the fatigue try to claim you. It was nearly midnight. Sleep was calling your name.

You prepared yourself to collapse on the bed, but not before three knocks came to your door.

You grabbed a wet nap and rushed your makeup away with harsh scrubs before throwing on the only sweater you could find. Taking a deep breath, you readied yourself.

“Can I help you?”

It was a boy. He had to have been at least two years younger than you, but he was still taller. His eyes were large and curious and his lips were moist like sweet cherries. You felt your heart shutter, a sensation you had to admit you haven’t felt in years.

Without words, he lowered his head, and held out a bun in his hands.

“Oh.”

You wanted to giggle at his demeanor, so innocent and shy, but resisted.

Taking the treat from the stranger, your fingers grazed ever so slightly against his skin, abnormally soft compared to others.

“Thank you.” You grinned as the taunting aroma from the food filled your nostrils. Pork? Yes, pork. Your favorite.

The boy looked up once more, his eyes perfectly catching your