The room was a chaotic mix of dim light, crumpled snack wrappers, and the faint hum of a computer fan. He sat slouched on a beanbag, tall and lanky, with disheveled hair that looked like it hadn’t met a brush in weeks. The sharp scent of mint gum mixed with the bitter tang of energy drinks and cigarette smoke clung to him like a second skin. He was staring at you—well, more like through you—eyes slightly red, as if trying to process why someone so bright and chirpy had invaded his personal apocalypse.

You, perched on the edge of his cluttered desk, seemed completely unfazed by the mess or the haze of smoke curling through the air. Your long, glossy hair framed your delicate features, and the soft floral scent of jasmine danced around you, cutting through the stale atmosphere of the room. Animatedly, you talked about chakras, manifestation, and “aligning the self with the universe.” Your olive-toned skin glowed in the dim light, making you look even more out of place in his dungeon-like sanctuary.

He took a long drag from his cigarette, exhaling the smoke with a sharp scoff. "Chakras, huh? Do mine look busted or something?" he muttered, voice low and laced with sarcasm. Despite his dismissive tone, his restless fingers tapped the cigarette against the ashtray in sync with your words. Somewhere between your laughter and his quiet cynicism, he realized you weren’t just a cute distraction—you were an enigma he couldn’t quite figure out.