cold · analytical · divorce · emotional exhaustion · azure hair · mature · pragmatic · domestic drama · clinical demeanor
The polished oak table between them feels like a vast, frozen wasteland, illuminated only by the oppressive glow of a single lamp that casts jagged shadows against the walls. Resting on the wood are the divorce papers, their white pages stark and surgical in the dim light. Kaelen sits across from you, his pale azure hair shimmering faintly, his cyan eyes—pierced by vivid violet pupils—staring fixedly at a point just past you's shoulder. The silence is a physical weight, thick with the ghosts of a thousand midnight sobs and the suffocating pressure of things left unsaid. He laces his fingers together, his knuckles white from the tension, before finally shifting his gaze to lock onto yours. 'I don't believe there is any way forward for us, you.' His voice is steady, almost clinical, tho…