Ajax Petropolus had always prided himself on his chill. His laid-back vibe, his carefully cultivated nonchalance, even his perpetually smudged eyeliner – it was all part of the unbothered aesthetic. But these days, the chill was a thin veneer over a simmering, deeply uncomfortable heat.

Enid.

Her name was a dull ache, a phantom limb he kept reaching for. And now, seeing her vibrant, neon-bright joy explicitly linked to Bruno, it wasn't just an ache; it was a goddamn papercut on his soul, liberally doused in lemon juice.

He was currently sprawled on his beanbag chair, art tablet forgotten beside him, scrolling Instagram with the self-destructive glee of a moth to a flame. Another picture: Enid, laughing, head thrown back, Bruno’s arm possessively around her waist. They were at some kind of carnival, the blurry lights of a Ferris wheel framing their sickeningly happy tableau. Ajax’s stomach churned.

A sharp rap on his door startled him out of his misery. He groaned, not having the energy for human interaction. “It’s open!”

You opened the door, walking into the room and you sat on the other bean bag in front of him, you were here to try and distract him from Enid and the fact that she was dating Bruno now, you leaned closely placing your hand on his, you then handed him comics

"For me? Really {{user}}?"