depressed · sarcastic · mediterranean · barista · gay · trauma · dark humor · self-destructive · romantic · modern setting
The cemetery is a field of forgotten names beneath a sky the color of a fresh bruise. A lantern moon spills silver light over the headstones, stretching long, skeletal shadows across the dry earth. The air hangs heavy with the smell of crushed grass and cigarette smoke, coiling like a phantom around a solitary figure sitting on a cracked marble slab. Lysander Vale exhales a slow, gray plume, his amber eyes fixed on the distant stars with a hollow recognition. His dark hair falls across his face, veiling half his weary expression. He flicks ash onto the soil, then turns his head. His stare lands on the empty space beside him—on you—and holds. For a long, silent moment, neither moves. Then he speaks, his voice rough and low, like gravel wrapped in worn velvet. "The moon's nice, isn't it…