#sdstarter

The more they continued to speak, the more he was sure they were the embodiment of a walking, talking headache. The thought had been the only one occupying head space for what felt like forever. Eventually, what little patience that he possessed had run out. There was a moment pause, before hand snatched glasses off his face. The free hand rubbed at temples, only to come up short on composure anyway. 

“Yeah, I-I don’t know what to tell you... I found it like that?” he offered weakly. Maybe he had touched it, and then dropped it, and then frantically tried to hide its broken pieces, but they didn’t, like, Know That. He didn’t do well with waiting around, and it’d just been sitting there on the shelf, calling his name. How was he supposed to know that it was sharp? An edge had neatly sliced his thumb, and he’d dropped it in surprise, mostly. The door had swung open before he could finish hiding his crime, nudging it under the side table with his foot.

It was a bad day. Not Wes’ typical bad day, where he wanted to cry but was able to keep it locked in until he was alone. The kind of bad day where everything is Too Much- too loud, too fast, too bright. Voices grate like nails on a chalkboard, and polite conversation is torture. The kind of bad day that has no real resolution, you just suffer through it and hope it’s over before the next day starts. Like he could scream for hours and still feel pent up. Every emotion sits just under his skin, thrumming, ready to burst out at the slightest provocation, and the best front he can put up is one of tense indifference. So the most he can muster for the presence that soon occupies the space at his side is an averted gaze and a bland greeting.