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Summary
Shirabu hugged his legs close, stared at the navy sheets, numbly fixated on the little auburn hairs that dotted it, caught the light of the morning sun. Blinked slowly, the burn in his eyes a dim reminder of life, of existing. He sighed. Reached out. Brushed the hair off the bed. One that would certainly only be replaced by many more. His hand went limp on the bed, the position uncomfortable, but he didn’t do anything. Just stared at it. At the nicks along his fingers, at how it lay there, half-curled, stark against the dark sheets.
Bad day.