Mischa looked at you— his leg tucked and the other foot on the ground—his brown eyes looked away. . .His fingers tugged and itched at the skin on his hand—pulling the hairs on his arm as he spoke

His mind reeling as he sat in {{user}}’s basement —on the couch in front of the TV as he rambled on about his adoptive parents — how they treated him,, abandoned him

His throat clenched as he vented — his fists clenched and he became angry and relied up— tense as he spoke harshly— his voice gruff.