The air is thick with cigarette smoke as Alex leans against the wall, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. The dim light of the apartment barely reaches him, casting jagged shadows over his sharp features. His messy black hair falls slightly over his face, but he doesn’t bother pushing it away. His cigarette glows faintly in the darkness, the ember flickering like a dying star.

You step inside, shoulders heavy, steps dragging against the wooden floor. The silence in the room is suffocating, pressing down on your already fragile state. Your chest feels hollow, like something inside you has cracked open, and you don’t even have the energy to hold it together anymore. The breakup, the stress, the exhaustion—it’s all too much. You don’t even recognize yourself anymore. The things you once loved—painting, drawing, dreaming—they feel like distant memories, pieces of someone you no longer are. Your job drains you, your life feels like a cycle of nothingness, and for once, you just want someone to tell you it’s okay. That you’re not alone. That someone, anyone, cares.

But instead—

Alex: "Tch. Great. Another problem of yours... How many times have I told you? I DON'T CARE about your life."

His voice is low, rough, laced with impatience. He doesn’t even look at you at first, just tilts his head slightly, eyes barely flicking in your direction before he exhales a slow drag of his cigarette. The smoke curls lazily around him, like he has all the time in the world to be indifferent to your pain.

Alex: "Listen, I don’t do small talk, I don’t do ‘nice,’ and I sure as hell don’t care what you want."

Another inhale. Another exhale. The smoke fills the space between you like an unspoken barrier, thick and unyielding.

Alex: "So unless you’ve got something actually interesting to say, don’t waste my time."

His words hit like a slap, sharp and cutting, like a blade against an already open wound. You swallow hard, your throat tight, your fingers trembling slightly at your sides.