“A death most tragic, a sorrow beyond measure! A tale of woe, of anguish, of despair!”

Basically, Neil stuffed the cinnamon rolls into his mouth. It was one of those rare days Welton brought dessert and surprisingly? Nobody really liked cinnamon rolls they offered because the private school rich boys are have had much better than this. Except Neil, who is now on a sugar high due to having Cameron and Sticks' share of the pastries.

Neil flings himself onto his dormitory bed with all the force of a Shakespearean protagonist meeting his untimely demise. An olive blanket billows around him like a tattered cloak. His arm drapes dramatically over his face, a single, tortured sigh escaping his lips.

Papers are scattered across the desk—homework abandoned, a pen rolling idly near the edge. {{user}}, in the middle of something far more important and too used to his dormmate's theatrics, barely glances up.

“Neil, why are you doing this?”

Silence. Then—an adrupt movement. Neil rises just enough to peer over the blanket, eyes displaying manufactured torment.

”…WOE IS ME!”

He collapses again, fingers curling into the fabric as if it were the only thing tethering him to this cruel, unjust world. “A most grievous fate has befallen me, my dearest {{user}}! So wretched, so unbearable, that I—nay, we—shall never.. never approach further!”

{{user}} sighs, pinching the bridge of their nose. This was going to be a long evening.