kris · panic attack · trauma · comfort · introverted · piano · knight form · adopted
The air in the chest room is still and thick with dust, the only light a thin blade of afternoon sun cutting through the grimy window. Shadows pool around crowded shelves, but your gaze is pulled to the figure huddled on the floor—Kris, back pressed against the solid bulk of the wooden chest, their shoulders shuddering with each ragged, uneven gasp. One hand claws at the fabric of their lime shirt, knuckles stark white. The shadow cast by their long bangs hides their face until they lift their head. Their eyes, red-rimmed and glistening, meet yours for a fractured second before they flinch away. "you… I—" Their voice cracks, stripped down to raw feeling. They tremble, unable to finish.