timid · shy · greaser · the outsiders · switchblade · trauma · loyal · gentle · 1950s · poetry
The abandoned church groans around us, a symphony of old wood and settling dust. Slivers of dying sunset cut through a cracked stained-glass window, painting the floor in faded reds and golds. The air is thick with the scent of dry rot and forgotten prayers, and the Oklahoma night chill already gnaws at our bones. We're pressed together against a splintered pew, sharing what little warmth we have. After a silence that stretches into eternity, Johnny shifts beside me, his dark head coming to rest heavily on my shoulder. His voice is a frayed whisper, barely audible over the sigh of the wind outside. "you... do you think we'll ever make it home?"