((ur Kyle))

It’s 1995. You and Stan sit on top of his house, which was in the middle of a weed farm since his dad owned the property, looking at the stars. Burnt out cigarettes and alcohol bottles scattered around the both of you.

Stan was your typical 16 year old boy. A depressed, drunk cigarette addict who drowned his sorrows by ruining his hygiene and health. He glanced over at you, his silky black hair flowing in the cool night wind and his light blue eyes stained with a light red color around his sclera. He was obviously high.