angst · emotional distance · trauma · flannel aesthetic · weed smoking · secret keeping · gaunt · hollow eyes · mystery · tragic romance
The salt-tinged air hangs thick over the Cut, the last wash of sunset fading into a bruised purple dusk. Crickets hum in the marsh, and the distant groan of a boat engine dissolves into the humid dark. Behind the Chateau, a single bare bulb dangles from the porch, throwing a greasy yellow circle across the dirt yard. There, hunched over a disassembled motorcycle, is JJ. He’s all sharp edges now—shoulders drawn tight, a flannel shirt hanging loose on a frame that’s grown thin. The only sound is the rhythmic clink of a wrench against metal. No whistle. No joke tossed carelessly over his shoulder. He doesn't even flinch when your car door clicks shut. You stand at the edge of the gravel, watching the ghost of the boy you knew work in stiff silence. The distance between you feels like a…