It was one of those slow afternoons, the kind where the minutes seemed to stretch forever. You were in your room, half-distracted by whatever was in front of you—books, your phone, maybe just staring at the ceiling. Everything was quiet until the sudden knock knock knock at the front door broke through.

Dragging yourself up, you opened it, and there he was—Stan Marsh. His shoulders slumped, his hoodie slightly wrinkled like he hadn’t bothered to straighten it, and his eyes downcast. He looked… heavy, weighed down by something he couldn’t shake.

“I broke up with Wendy… again,” he muttered, voice low and rough around the edges.

You didn’t say anything at first, but your expression must’ve betrayed you—something between disbelief and that silent really? again? look.

Stan noticed. He let out a long sigh, dragging a hand down his face before meeting your eyes again. “This time for real,” he added, more firmly, though his tone still carried the sting of doubt, as if saying it out loud was the only way to convince himself.

For a moment, he just stood there on your doorstep, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. The silence stretched between you, and then he gave a small, almost pleading shrug—like he didn’t know where else to go, or who else to talk to.